Written July 28, 2023
The thing is…I am just a mere composition of things I have written, emotions I have felt, and people I have met. And to collect them all and piece them together would be an impossible feat. Because although I am whole, I am constantly changing. Thus it feels like I am sure of very little. Lovely things come and then they go, but at least they come at all. The only thing we can be very certain of is this and of change.
And if that is so, that I am the agglomeration of my mother, father, brother, friends, and flings, I reckon I wouldn’t be woven so tightly. If you were to collect the books I have read, the films I have seen, and all of the letters I have written and stitch them together, it wouldn’t make very much sense at all. I’d be awfully patchy and the colors would coincide more or less okay. Fabrics would clash and strings would hang loosely. Because these elements and these stories fill me and then they flee, but at the very least they change me.
Still, none of it makes very much sense at all.
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