Words.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I've been told before that cussing is no way in which to express yourself. That the wonder's of the English language can accurately portray your emotions without the use of profanity. That intelligent people don't cuss. Well, guess what. My fucking IQ is out of the roof, and my favorite word is cunt.

Fuck.

Words are a way in which we express ourselves. Yet, I find it difficult to portray anything through the use of words. Despite being a writer, words are not my friend. They run from me, find themselves slippery, just outside of my grasp.

Writing is the only means in which I can express myself much these days, and so it is to writing I turn.

Words, what are words?

I never understood this glimpse into the metamorphosis, until just recently. What are words? Can words accurately describe anything outside of pure appearance? Sure, words can tell you that the door is a rich mahogany, heavy to pull open, but simple to close shut in the ornate doorframe. But, can words accurately describe the emotions going through our mind as we close that door, knowing it is the last time, knowing that everything is about to change the minute you walk through?

I don't think they can.

Words are only skin deep. Words can't explain the heart and soul of a person, place or thing. This has been a sense of frustration for me lately, because I can't understand why a person makes me feel a certain way, just that they do.

Words are failing now.

I don't understand this feeling. Fuck.

If life were different....

I keep thinking that phrase.

If life were different then maybe the situation would be different. But that's the frustrating part. Life is not different. Things are the way they are. It's a big old bound up complicated piece of shit that won't pass.

I feel like our lives, these lives, would have gone on without one another. In another life we would have been inseparable.  And then something strange happened in this life, causing a chasm, if you will. Suddenly, the lines between this life and that life were mixed.

And here we are.

We're stuck, halfway in this life, halfway in that life.

Fuck.

And it's beginning to kill me because I want that life. Of us being inseparable. If life were different, I wouldn't have to be so confused about how I feel about you.

You, from time to occasional time, say how much it bothers you. Words are not my friends. And thus I can't put it into words how it is the same for me. Because if life were different, we both know exactly how things would pan out. We both know that in another life, things wouldn't be this complicated. In another life, these things would be natural.

I can't say the words for which my feelings are trying to convey because they are too big, too complicated and I'm afraid to give a voice to the thoughts which plague my mind.

Words, what are words?

Sometimes I have perfect control over these thoughts and feelings. Manage to quell them, make them dwindle until there is nothing left to give and life continues on as if that's how it's meant to be. And then something happens, on any night, on a night like tonight, where it all comes rushing back. These things that I can't hold suppress for so much longer.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I wish life were different.

Others see it. We see it. And yet we're stuck in the continuum of having two separate lives where the lines somehow got blurred together. And there's nothing we can do about it. But no regrets.

There's so many things to say, and yet nothing said. Words don't get to the core of a person, they cannot accurately describe what makes a person a person. We're stuck at the surface, stuck on a metaphysical level which is nothing of what is the truth in actuality.

What are words?