nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Words lost to time about you and I - ORIGINAL PROSE

These words have been spoken before, long before I took my first breath, long before I laid eyes upon you and knew of this feeling the poets had long since waxed lyrically about, for it hit me as though it had been there all along, a feeling lying dormant, a thought continuous and free, always there, always to be, that all I needed was you, you for all time, you for this moment and the next to follow, you as I write and feel things still lying there, waiting to be explored, to analysed, to dissect, to inspire me so, as I write and write all the things which fall in the grey, blurry space between here and there, between chaos and comfort, between peace and mania, between love and hate, between indifference and acknowledgement. It falls, just as I did once, this silence as time stretches out the seconds between syllables, as I struggle to count the days from one conversation to the next, for each day simply feels as though it carries over from one to the next, as though a great storm cloud hangs over my head, as gloom follows me, casting my heart into a great sorrow, a great loss and longing for one and the same. 

Words lost to time, yet here I write all the same, here I speak from a heart lost and confused, yet it speaks true and openly, with a candid air of clarity which often follows with a strong bout of honesty and respect. Here, I am, here, I shall always be, here, I shall write for all time, for it is all I know how to do, but it appears that living in fiction and writing, as the comfort blanket is offers to an otherwise cold and heartless world, a world without care or compassion, only blunts these words, only offers them not as an act of confession, as a means to act, as way to speak what can never be spoken, as a way to relate to those who live on in the heartache of unrequited love, but simply as a means to deny, to hide behind a mask of indifference, as if to wear the expressions of others, to appear before the world as another person far removed from the broken individual, blameless and full of blame in equal measure, to protect a heart which had never known peace, which always loved what cannot love in return, yet had been loved when it could not give and never knew how to speak when spoken to. 

These words are a letter, these words are a diary entry from which the world shall use to peer into the very depths of my soul, into the fragile nature of the human condition, but I write them all the same, for it measures the length of time between words spoken and words recorded, to say what one means without fear of consequence, to speak from the heart which cannot say all it wishes to say, not even to itself. These words speak of a woman who seeks to be seen, but never to be known, to understand yet to never to understood, but writes because it is all she knows, but what does it mean when the thing to do, not the thing to be done nor the thing to be desired, brings only the intense fear of failure, and the source of such inspiration comes at a cost of mental wellbeing and closure, for all I know is to relive the worst the human mind can conjure, to live in and centre my life around those moments one would do well to reject, to allow to fade into the recesses of the mind, to disappear from my conscious for all time? It means nothing, but I still hear the praise from back then, and the way you smiled when I spoke, even when it was simple nonsense in poetic form, when I meant nothing except the simple, yet potent meaning behind mundane, everyday language - such things never to be uttered, less they destroy what shouldn't be destroyed and break what can always be broken? 

An unspoken agreement, an acknowledgement of all which lies between you and I, but it means nothing if I cannot say it all and reveal the contents of my heart: the good, the bad and the ugly.