Thinking Of Lost
I feel my bottom comfortable in my warm dress that separates it from the rough cushion. My feet, cold and bare, tickle from the position I lay in. I feel my long brown hair, falling from its tight bun, and my fingers vibrating from my typing. I think. I think about my life. I wonder why I am here and what to do. I think about anger and meaningness. Why does this matter? I want control. Why? Why do I do the right thing? I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. I write. I feel whole and I feel well. Compassion. Love. Creative. I write more and more but don’t know what to write. I focus. I am alone. I think. I think. What do I feel? Nothing. Emotion. None. FULL. I look over my page of writing and correct all my errors. I forget that what really matters is the writing and what it is telling the reader. I read over it. I read over my work and am satisfied. Again, I focus on my spelling. I live in the future and say what I will write next in my head but try not to. I try to have the words slip into my brain as I am writing it. It doesn’t work. I try. I don’t know what to write. I think. I focus. I let the words slip out and not worry about my errors. I think. I want. I tickle the thought of life. That came to my head. I think about what it tells me and I say no. That doesn’t sound right but then I listen. It tells me more and makes sense. Confusion. No one understands me. I am confusing. I try so hard and harder. Feeling my quiet heart is like knowing what love is not. I don’t know what you mean when you speak. No one knows what you mean when I speak. I am confusing. I am confused. I am a person. I think. I taste the coffee I recently sipped, I smell nothing as my nose is clogged up, I feel the keys underneath my fingers, I see my writing with red lines underneath words, I hear the air from my parents’ empty room, my sixth sense opens. Creativity. My mind is the most powerful part of me. I don’t believe that. My heart. No. Together my heart and mind go hand in hand. I think. My sixth sense its think. think. think. I repeat the words seven times three. I pause after one seven. I count on my fingers. Think think think think think think. That is three sevens. You are confused. I say the word one more time, but this time I obey it. I think. I close my eyes and say the word again. My hands continue on the board while I keep my eyes closed. I repeat the word and this time only say it in my head. I focus on my breathing I open my eyes and continue writing. I now go over my errors. There. Complete. I fixed my writing. Does it need to be fixed? I think about judgmentalness. That is no word. I often make words. We look. We stare. We Jude. I cry. I think about what people say to other people. It hurts them. I think about what they say to me. It hurts me. It isn’t about me, not always, not now. Judging is not my job. It isn’t yours. I feel sad. I feel anger. I feel judged. Prose. I... get upset that I don’t get likes. FOOLISH. I am told that I should not be on this if I continue to blind myself in self-pity. Not those words, never those words. I feel morange the more I try for likes. I want to be accepted by society. What’s wrong is right and what’s right is wrong. I choose what they say or the opposite. They don’t like confusion.who am I. I am lost. That is who I am. LOST. I read over, one more time...and I hit publish.