Should we be silent and not speak?

*I really honestly do not have words right now. All of this just stumbled from my fingers and I couldn't stop it. It's a bit of a mess, and I apologize, but also I don't apologize. 

Anyway.*

I don't have words anymore. I just have thoughts and ideas and things to say without thinking, but it only seems to come out as someone else's words. Or just comes out as my words, but they're dumb and awful and exhausting.

I'm not the person I was, and you are not the person you were, and my mom is not the person she was forty years ago today.

And I don't know what it's like to be dry-eyed anymore. I don't know what it's like to be free from my own head and free from my own chains. I know that I'm far from grown up, but I'm somewhere, aren't I? I know I still talk without thinking and procrastinate better than I prepare and care too much what everyone else thinks, but I'm something else, maybe.

And nothing seems to stay inside me anymore. I feel awful when my Complete Works gets handled more than my bible, but I sometimes think they're almost parallel and that's awful blasphemous for me to voice that thought, don't you think?

I wish I had the words for the way I would've looked had you dissected me one year ago.

I'm scared of the things we've let go of -- are you? I'm scared of the things we've grabbed hold of, but they're better things than the things we let go of -- obviously, because we let go of them -- but I'm still here standing naked, "taking guesses at the actual date and time."

I want to be bloody brilliant, like you are bloody brilliant, but I keep getting distracted, and I keep writing things even though they seem to turn out like this.

I'm running thin, but running so fast, and I just keep quoting Imogen and screaming to you, screaming "Here is my heart" and I'm terrified.

But you're here. You're here with me. And sometimes, you are so beautiful that it hurts. And I love you so much. That's the only thing that hasn't changed, yeah? Yeah, everybody? Yeah? 

You are good cats, everybody.

We're still just us. We talked like it was a foreign language -- because it almost was -- and then "best friends" wasn't a lie, and I guess that even though we lost pieces of us, we figured out a whole lot more and that's just crazy.

That's crazy.

I have Coriolanus in my head and Othello behind my eyes and Titus Andronicus at my fingertips, and I'm screaming the facts of Will in my sleep.

All my love,

Addy

Swimming through the saline.

I cry every day. Big, black tears full of make-up and little quiet clear tears full of nothing but salt.


I cry because this is real life and I cry when people on television shows die and people in books get shot. I cry when other people's houses go up for sale. I cry when I cut my toe with the vacuum cleaner and when I think there is a killer shadow in my bedroom at three in the morning. I cry because there are books that are so well-written, I can't help but shed a tear. I cry when I see the dates on the calendar and I cry when I see old friends. I cry when I look at paintings and when I can't do anything right. I cry when I get my hopes up and when I get fortune cookies that are perfect. I cry at the mention of certain books. I cry when I miss people. I cry more when I look in the mirror and see how awful all that crying has made me look and cry the most when I realize I am crying because of something I saw in the mirror. 


I cry because sometimes, I simply don't know what else to do. Every single day, that happens. I just cry, involuntarily, because "any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary."


And right now, there is so much to feel.


I miss you more with every passing moment. Even though you are not even gone yet.
All my love,
Addy

Day 24: The reason behind my tears.

I cried over a boy once. Sometimes I cry simply because it makes me feel better. I believe in "happy tears" and in crying them when things go exactly perfect.

I mostly cry because I put a lot of faith in the world. I believe it is a good place full of good people who are selfless and genuine even when I am not. I loose it when I remember that this isn't always true.

But the same the that tortures me (having too much faith in the world) lights my eyes. If nothing else, I believe this: Underneath it all, people are good. The world is beautiful - full of beautiful people and beautiful things. The world is full of chocolate covered strawberries and kissing and little letters and indian costumes.

My world is beautiful because I allow it to exist as such. How are you allowing your world to exist?

One day we will all be fragments of our imaginations.

All my love,

Addy.