Day 16 - Missing
There’s a reason why I have ink on my hands, and a reason why most of that ink spells out words. Words have power. They have meaning.
I try to fill my life with words and my words with life. If there’s anything I’ve know how to do, or I have tried to do, it’s fill my words with life and my life with words. In that sense, the words belong to me; it’s why I feel the need to sometimes write them on my hand, if not in the cardboard notebook I compulsively keep in my pocket.
I write my words down because they are infused with my life and you’re only given a limited amount of life that you can’t afford to lose. I can’t lose my words.
But I lose some anyway. I can’t write every word I think. Words I write are not perfect representatives of my thoughts. Words I think cannot capture every emotion I feel. Emotions I feel cannot always be translated into even thoughts, existing in the viscera as mostly unsettlement.
Unsettling because as far as you know, you’re the only person feeling what you feel which you cannot describe.
How do you describe the color ‘Red’ to someone?
There will never be enough words in my life. Words stuck in the past (’Mistake’), words to be found in the future (’Happy’). Nothing will ever be enough.
That’s my MO: Nothing will ever be enough.
“Everything I Ever Wanted” will never be everything I ever wanted. By pure coincidence, I’ll discover something else to be wanted when I have everything. Maybe that is what’s meant to be: I’ve only progressed as far as I’ve had because of the drive for more.
A drive that will set someone off into the world, sometimes lost, sometimes speeding forward along the right track, sometimes at a standstill, sometimes at the bottom of a cliff.
Because there’s always going to be something more, there’s always going to be something missing. When I want, I want hard; when I love, I love hard. Hard enough, intense enough to shake me to the core and have pieces of me fall off, to be left with what I want hard, with what I love hard.
These are the pieces that will always be missing. My words will never be able to describe them because the words that would are no longer mine; there are of those I’ve left behind.
My loves. The love I leave behind will never be mine again. I never hope they will be. Just as the man who hold no love does not have a place in the world, so does not the man who hoards it.
There will always be something missing from me now and going forth, something taken out of me that I don’t want returned. I don’t need it to be returned.
I just have to remember that it is no longer mine, and that I have to replace it.
I’m just trying to replace it with more words.
-derk