It's all too complicated, or so simple I can't see it.

In moments of quiet, I find myself inexplicably melancholy. As if everything else is a complicated fun house of distraction, and the melancholy is the reality on the other side of the door. This is scary and unsettling. And incredibly difficult to face in full.

On another note...

I feel like I used to be a very different person. I've been thinking about who that person was and what it is, exactly, that I miss. In writing a friend the other day, these words poured out: I miss poetry. I miss the rhythm of words in my life. It's a river gone dry, and I can still remember taking deep, refreshing droughts of the stuff. I hope that I'll forget, that I won't remember to miss it anymore.

Sincerely. Me.