this is a story . . . well something like that I suppose. maybe it’s more of a memory, or one of those things you fail to project.
I’m not sure if it’s just me, or something more. Perhaps I am too poetically inclined, or rather undermining a stronger sense of clarity (I guess ambiguity has its way of coming about).
I don’t feel as if there is much to say right now, except that I feel many things. Living with obsessive compulsive disorder is a neat way to categorize the complexity that I consider to be . . . my . . . self.
I am folded in between sequences of reality and illusion, trying to constantly create a manifestation of harmony out of incessant chaos.
It’s something of a memory — this part of me.
It’s some part of me — mentally.
It’s part of me — metaphysically.
It’s a mess: a beautiful mess . . . these cherry blossoms.