sometimes, life feels so much like a poem I feel compelled to record it. I want to share the beauty of it all with the world.

The littlest things deserve lyrical attention: I spread cream cheese on my bagel with a plastic knife. I unloaded a bundle of clean, dry laundry that I don't feel like folding. And other things. Personal things. Things that stream through my mind, unfiltered, in a long, connected string.

Not only the mundane plagues my mind. All of these deep truths, and the silliness of things, and the beauty and the pointlessness of things - they occur to me in such detail and so clearly, that I feel for a moment that I understand the true nature of everything. I feel like I am standing on the soil of an undiscovered planet, whose surface I am scratching for the first time.

And then I try to record these truths and thoughts and feelings... and they evade me, disguise themselves, hide. They come out garbled and unclear, a sudden discrepancy. The peaceful fluidity of my inner monologue becomes abruptly interrupted and incomprehensible. I find myself unable to express a single thing that had so presently seemed blatantly clear and begging to be heard. Or read.

but they cannot be read when they're all in my head.