Words are the part of silence that can be spoken
Underneath the others, tucked in between shelves full of dust.
Occasionally you forget their existence, but ever so often..they resurface.
Forcing you to come to terms with your own past.
What is there to face?
Attachment, anticipation and abandonment.
What is the reason nothing is ever left behind?
Words, emotions, glances stick forever.
I recently discovered a notebook of texts written by someone once very important to me.
Upon reading them I felt it again.
The awe, the sense of littleness and how easily I was impressed.
19 years old and trusted with another person's most intimate emotions put to print.
I have this thing about feelings and words. I remember them perfectly.
Actions and occurences, not so much.
If you emphasize the imagined and felt, but ignore the real,
if you live in a bubble instead of the moment..
Chances are, you're living there alone.
And a frozen smile while feeding ducks remains a memory like a hipstamatic photograph.
slightly enhanced, altered, romanticized.
Nothing like the cold reality of the moment.
hipstamatic me.
Every written word is a net to catch the word that escaped
