It is almost unreal. Everything is almost not real. I have come from meaning to meaninglessness to meaning and back again to nothing. I go in circles, cyclical patterns, never the same person but always finding myself in the same places. I constantly wonder if this is who I am now, if life will always be like this—either empty or full, depending on the day—but only for me to change once again. I wish for something constant, but deny myself in the process. I suppose that is religion.
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Poetrysuppose Truth was a woman... * * * A collection of poems & thoughts about life and death and everything in between. * * * Disclaimer: Everything you read here was collected directly from my notes and journals, so please excuse any excess passion or...
