Artists speak to the wind and only have faith that some is listening. So it makes sense that we create on canvases that the World may never see. Our hearts get buried in overwhelming amounts of music and books. So much is left at the bottom of the crate, never heard or understood. We’re all just overwhelmed today and ready to shut off our brains. Too much is thrown directly in our faces, that we have no space to search for ourselves.

Last night, my heart had seen a light through a slit in the ether and my subconscious is warning me that I might have run out of choices. For once in my life, I feel like I’m in all the wrong places. I’ve departed from the illusion that’s guided me, which had given me goosebumps across my skin for years. Now there’s something, dragging me down. It steps on my chest at night and pins me down, tells me I can’t go anywhere because it wants to take control. A black soul lingers at the bottom of the staircase, so I’m thinking of escape, out the window, behind the house tonight.

There comes a point when ones input far exceeds the output, and the mind meanders in fields of unexamined thoughts. All channels have been clogged, like a valve has been shut off and a drought has begun, but in reality, so many thoughts are trying to break through, that they’re flooding out at infinite speed in the wrong direction, too unfocused to flow through such a narrow pipe.

and with sympathy, I know what it feels like to be one of those lost molecules. Each one is a thought, or feeling. An experience I’ve had in a moment of my life. Things I’ve only dreamed and others I wish I’ve had the opportunity to experience.