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Array
(
[sid] => 179309
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Parting Words
[time] => 2014-09-20 10:13:26
[hometext] => Only from anguish comes the inspiration to write, and how it heals the soul. For V, these words unspoken are all yours. Xx
[bodytext] => I feel. Heavy. Like I have this grey cloud that follows me around but instead of being light and fluffy like clouds usually are, it weighs heavy. Insurmountable heaviness. That when I lay down in bed, I feel an unnatural indentation forming through these sheets. That I'm sinking into the foam and it's swallowing me whole. And strangely it's the only place I want to be. I collect. Words. Words voiced out, words unspoken. I run them over in my mind, with the skill only a seasoned overthinker has. I cringe at the blunt presentation of thoughts and the lack of grace in my delivery when we last met. The jumbled words in the corner? The ones stemming from gratitude and melancholy? I cup them with my wrinkled fingers for all the stray feelings that linger. I wish I'd chosen them instead. They do better to represent these retained thoughts anyway. I write. Because only in times of great distress does this heart work together with the mind effortlessly. Because these emotions are brimming faster than I predicted and this weary heart is losing composure. Because a part of this soul finds solace in immortalizing anguish for future days when I'm brave enough to be reminded. Because when eyes are dry and cannot cry, the pen can be a savior. I think. Happy thoughts. Sad thoughts. Hopeful thoughts. Rational thoughts. Free spirited thoughts. Rigid thoughts. I watch them contradict themselves violently. They're loud and they're strong and they don't get along. And in the end they give rise to Empty Thoughts. Silent and calm, I'll hold on to them for a while. For these are the ones I like best after all. But mostly. I miss. Every gesture, every word. Every conversation, every term. Soaking into your very core, leaving pangs of yearning behind. I tell my heart to savor the memories, to embrace the beauty of pain. Let it be, let it be. Nostalgia, cruel yet beautiful is she. She seeps into the feeble soul and within a blink consumes it whole. And yet I feel no angst for her, no spiteful words, no bitter tears. For in the moment all I know, I'll take it all if she gives me more. [comments] => 7 [counter] => 274 [topic] => 22 [informant] => blueheart [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => LostLove )
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