It seems like I’m sitting there and you’re sitting next to me, but on a different seat. And it seems like I’m talking to you but sometimes I don’t know and I’m not sure about if I’m talking to you or if any of this is really happening. I take a breath, I look at you, and the moment is paused. Why can’t I remember this? Why can’t I see you and why can’t my mind see you. Seeing you is seeing you and if seeing you is then why aren’t I? And why aren’t you and this moment in my mind and why can’t I remember this moment in my mind and why can’t I every do i every and I ever can’t never can do?
And I’m confused and scared that I can’t write but you told me I can and it makes me believe that I might.
And every sentence I start seems to start with seems to start and and. And when I triple and or double what or double up on what I said I think that maybe I might be doing it wrong
But you told me I am doing it write and that I can do it right and it makes me believe that I can but I just don’t know right now.
The flowing ever-limping sentence structure of my feeble attempts at innovation seem to slow me down and keep me from being.
I am worried that I can’t write anymore. I’m worried that I’ll never again be that person that you saw. When you saw a light behind me and in me and that light really was there.
I promise it was there but I think it might be fading.
I’m tired of thinking that I’m unable to write. I can write it’s just that I’m not sure that I have a suitable subject. And the subjects in my mind are subjectively shit and the objects in my writing are objectively intangible and therefore cannot be written about. but I can try. I can try but it might not come out right.
And then maybe you won’t see that light ever again and maybe my light has faded.