"A writer is a world trapped in a person." Victor Hugo
Here I am, currently plopped on my bed, surrounded by a heavy blanket and massive feather pillows. I can’t help but think of how much of an emotional wreck I’ve been this week. My mood has been both a skyscraper and a deep abyss. I’m still searching for a middle ground, where I can experience my emotions like a normal, living, breathing human being.
I feel helpless. Like I’m running through a forest of mist and darkness without light, and I keep looking up to the north star but all I see are obstacles in the form of dark branches and leaves.
I need to find the light before the darkness swallows me.
I want you. I want to be able to run my palms against your soft, warm skin. I want to be able to drag my hands to the top of your head, and let the tips of your hair seep between the tips of my fingers. I want to rest my forehead upon yours, and smile as our lips are touching. I just want you, forever, always, to be mine.