Down. Set. Run.

Hello again and a fancy meeting you here.

I'm still home, and life is still happening quickly.

Moving will take place soon, and goodbyes are forthcoming and make me cry (again).

I need to detach enough where tears are sparse, however the social being within a quiet shell pleas nightly for conversation at the minimum.

Tonight's words were good.

Let's start to measure out life not by coffeespoons, but by stories and words. Let's make our dreams matter more.

Reality isn't important. Facts will change, as will minds and hearts. But stories. Memories and the tales of our lives,
the one's in our minds,
will be the important ones.

Maybe if we swallowed our words we would become wiser, like brains, hearts, and eyes . What would you take back?
What would I?


Living some place new, without a known soul for 45 minutes close, will be awkward.

How do you meet people?

Do you have to be social with reality?

Will I ever stop asking questions? No.

Detachment and trying to connect is messing with my mind. If only there was a guidebook to living my own life, with a more interesting protagonist.
I miss the other characters constantly.

And here we go...

Let's detach for a moment.
I wish it was that easy.
Perhaps, I come off as too personal. And maybe we don't really want to know one another.
Another modernist flaw.

I spend my nights staring at the bed above me, trying to find the future in the grains. My evenings are spent trying to force thoughts through motions.
How about you?
Am I being too personal?

Maybe we'll wait another day to say words as dissociated as possible.
Maybe you'll see through the words and truly understand the book.

Detach.

It is the beginning of the last chapter of this book. This series feels like it can fill a book-shelve.
I dislike books that make you cry, but goodbyes are always hard.
It may even be a farewell.

And I sing
I just want to swim.