instants of consciousness break late mornings. slowly, suddenly, but forgotten and drained out by the glance at the clock and the look forward into the dull drizzle of sunny, cloudy, rainy days. left only with the choice to sleep until exhaustion runs dry. driven to do everything not.

it all slipped away in youth when its facade revealed dependence. leaving nothing but a tired, backgrounded lust for vibrance.

why can i only find the beauty left in words, dullness patterned onto musky fog? can i even ask that anymore? is it because i'm only meant to live in words? because love is when its meaning regains in ostentatious symbols of humanity, of culture, of the very atoms of thought. but is it deconstructed or constructed with those symbols? (sorry for using the word ostentatious, but that's how i feel. that's how i am. but at the same time, it feels kind of good to disregard subtlety and good-taste to just flat out disgustingly abuse language and add symbolism and psychology to every word) or both?

im only truly in love when im writing in my being. when beauty comes out in words. i guess ive forgotten that. ignored that. and i need it to feel human whether i knew it or not. my disappointment in reality probably has much less to do with reality, than with my understanding of reality.

and i just thought about things i've written. how i talk all about big words like time and feeling and souls -- constructions that become part of the deconstruction by remembering everything else related. i think i follow. i just mean words can carry so much more into a reality, without actually changing what's there, but rather digging into the past and understanding what's there and relating it to symbols that have already gained meaning in life. grounds it a bit. gives it roots to grow. and carries through all human experiences like this golden thread of meaning. like love.