No reason, I told myself as I scrolled further, no reason to be influenced, there's nothing new there, nothing to see, nothing that is my bussiness to mull over, nothing nothing nothing.
Where does this obsession end?
This ought not to hurt anymore. (Except I'm not precisely hurt, nor envious. It feels more as if I am in a parenthesis that everyone overlooks, unable to get out of the brackets.)
It feels like I can't outgrow myself. Like I'm stuck in phases. It's like T.S. Elliot said"
"Some things take root
in the brain and just don't
let go."
(Written in my diary in the early hours of dawn, posted unedited).
you are right. the words to describe "this" are always fleeting. perhaps because something with this kind of magnitude is it's own thing, like no emotion or painting or song or words or poem or anything can say it just right... sometimes close, sometimes it can almost touch it... but never exactly.
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