It’s not about the time, or the space, or the words.
Moreso..the events.
Not even the time the event requires in order to
Successfully cause change or thought.
The events consume us, making us something we never intended to be.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t help the event in any way.
And it is when events like these occur and cause you to stop and forget
what brought that event upon you
they really cause feeling; happiness or pain:
You forget, not purposefully
All that you’ve known before
In order to attempt an understanding of any feeling you’ve been made aware of
Thanks to tragic, romantic events.
You’ll see nothing.
Just what it’s made you.
The romantic tragedy of an event brought me to embrace all identities that define me.
Enforcing my decisions in so many ways and directions.
I’ll pull you in.
In unfamiliar ways and angles.
You may think your feelings are strangely distorted.
Thanks to the events.
Thanks to me.
But. I wont regret the event that lead to us.
I’ll regret nothing.

I want you to think it, I want you to feel it. But please, don’t say it until theres a way, if there ever is, for the words to do it justice. If there isn’t, thats alright. There isn’t enough vocabulary in the world to put one’s thoughts into words. Because thoughts are our reactions to everything we feel & see & hear. You can’t always spell a sound, explain how you feel, or describe the things, good or bad, that we visually witness. Of course, attempting to put it all into pretty little sentences is beautiful, it’s always so beautiful. The jagged, incomplete, scattered, narrowly or broadly compiled paragraphs are all so appealing to imagination. Reading or writing, listening or talking, it all puts thoughts in our head. They are honest, parallel to your soul the instant they are born; but immediately drift toward familiar words, the most familar words a thought can recognize. Betraying integrity and longing for it simultaneously, it all changes when it hits the air, and especially alters itself on it’s path to a new mind. The true feeling of a thought, turned into a useless sentence, is left abandoned in the air infront of all those souls, invisible to all that judgement, surrounded by all those answers and mismatched ideas, clinging to its understanding.

Somehow, I think the running away is just about as inevitable as my negativity towards acceptance. There’s something about the lack of emotion that’s supposed to accompany the concept of it all that appeals to me — unfortunately for those who seem to know how to care for me and unfortunately for myself, because I do love - despite what might need to be done. I’ve betrayed the sort of necessity that gaurds everything I am and taken steps towards you.

The “formal feeling after great pain” can be a variety of things to each unique guest. A different attitude, a higher price. For some, most, it’s a formal acceptance -  a moving on. Behaving like you’re supposed to because you believe it’s best. You’ve accepted that, even if you don’t want to be, you’re the kind of person that’s almost capable of ceasing to care anymore. Not about everything, just that thing that your caring can no longer reach. Maybe you just put the thought, the caring, somewhere else; in something else; or you keep it, and somehow, place it on your shelf of doubts in the back of the closed library in the center of it all. In the middle of everyone, all your experiences. It’s completely hidden in an open space, right where acceptance said it was supposed to be. Catalogged, just another story, the same author, forbidden feeling.

It could be depression. An accepting that you’ll never be strong, or weak enough to give up the caring, even if it hurts. You embrace it and fight it, at the same time. Turning it into a part of yourself. Sort of overwhelming, shocking: the way it steadily takes it all and places it where it all looks different - means something else - means nothing. Like your soul is no longer compatable with anything you’ve been given anymore because that one piece was taken. Not stolen. It was never yours, the hopig it would be yours was wrapped around it, impossibly tangled, so sweetly, romantic even. It still is. That might be the problem. It’s gone somewhere, and it took all your tangled, sweet hope with it. Leaving exactly all that you can bare to accept.