Babble.

Ive never closed any chapters in my life,
they continue to write themselves inside me, I continue to pour over them in my journals, in my dreams, and in my scribbled drawings. This is who Ive become over the years, and this indisposable quality has made my youth grow shorter, and my worries come quicker.

I understand the art of being a human being more than any philosopher can explain it, there is a subtle definition that has been given, a general definition, but I do not fit the mold. I do not have a heart, just a box full of emotions, every so often the tape that holds the edges shut, gives, and a flow of unrecognizable feelings pours out; but it is quickly shut again, waiting for the next time the tape rips, and the box gives.

I do not think, I analyze - I know who you are before Ive met you, and your thoughts and actions are very logical, clearly marked on the timeline of our friendship. My lungs suffocate, instead of inhaling. My thumbs are the only piece of identity I have, clearly marking every print I have left on every person I have ever touched, and these prints, on these people fascinate me.

I will never stop writing, these chapters will never close.