Mourning Epiphanies:

In here I can only be certain that my feelings are true. Within my reach how far can I go? If ahead is a picture of uncertainty, drawn in the image of ambiguity, how will I know?

The validity I am prone seldom ideal and palpable. Emotions: Mute but chatters; sturdy but rocks; slow but inescapable. Something I don’t want to feel, something you can reversibly say but irreversible.

My hands shake for a reason, is it because my body is responding to this plight? Or my mind on a clash with my thoughts? When thoughts collide my hands vibrate. I feel cold.

In the crowdest places, I feel alone. And I can only be certain that I am not when I stop looking for people who have a life of their own.

The problem with me is that I can hardly translate my emotions when I am pushed to desperation, nor speak my heart when I am certainly lost. But who doesn’t want to be found? No one.

I want answers, but sometimes, I don’t have to know them.