Disconnection from one's past
It is strange to stare at one's own memories, and have only written words to show for them. I'm meticulous in keeping correspondence, and I can trace back friendships that occurred years ago through the saved letters I find. I have never thrown out a letter anyone has sent me, even letters from women I loved and lost. I still have them on my shelves and in my files.
It's the only tie I have to the places I have been and people I have known. It's weird... I can find a poem written to me by a dear friend whom I haven't spoken to in eight years, but I can't find a current photo of myself. Or of my current friends.
All I have is writing.
All I have is words.
I used to be so very poetic. I also used to be so very melodramatic. I stopped being at least one of these, though I'm honestly not sure some days which it is. I want the poetry back.
Maybe I'm just too broken for poems these days. Just stories. Just words.
It's the only tie I have to the places I have been and people I have known. It's weird... I can find a poem written to me by a dear friend whom I haven't spoken to in eight years, but I can't find a current photo of myself. Or of my current friends.
All I have is writing.
All I have is words.
I used to be so very poetic. I also used to be so very melodramatic. I stopped being at least one of these, though I'm honestly not sure some days which it is. I want the poetry back.
Maybe I'm just too broken for poems these days. Just stories. Just words.