Hush

I made a decision that I am a walking box of conjumbled thoughts, and- on occasion- I can fit them together to make a flowing description.

In my bag right now there are two journals, a scrap receipt with a journal entry jotted down, a ripped out journal entry to put elsewhere, and a book with the last blank page full of writing. I make due- sometimes I just gotta get things out.

They seem to have nothing in common, these scraps. Ranging from a slight annoyance, to heartache, to time being my worst enemy. So far all have come to pass and reshape, but I suppose they're linked in the idea that at the time they were written, they were the main focus and/or hell. They were at one time the torment that I had to rid myself of.

the sun is growing tired of my burning fear

the moon is empathizing how i toss and turn

they say hush