Lack of interest.

[f_of_x]

If great writers start with their conclusions, then this is mine: I have no impossible evidence to prove a thing, and no possible clue on how to mention I’m lost. I lost myself about a year ago in the hospital. I lost touch with these people that are around me, and gained a full understanding of everything that is to come and something else. I fell into a dream that I never had and never will. I live along the shore of this dream kicking sand into the water. And then there is you; providing me with a little more than I should have ever tasted. We love each other and this is one thing that I am sure about. Such a haze this is; you and I. I feel perfect and insecure. Perfection is without margins. I have always drawn tiny images in the margins of my life. What is life without…? How to be creative? How to be genius? To imagine yourself walking along the sidewalk and to hit your head amongst the trees, how must you live another day without a worry? How can I tell myself that there is a world without a single care to be had? Is this what I have inside of me, all of this? Or is it a question; one that I can’t stab at. Can we not calculate truth because we know not what to ask? I think this is the truth.

About me: I am a sucker for the heartache of a good life, and a calm being that opts for the most inconvenient path.

I care a trifle about how this sounds.