Forget

I wonder if you'd forget me when I'm gone. I don't mean dead, but just away from here. The urge to run and leave, and forge my own path is overwhelming. I feel stifled and trapped inside my head, only rarely letting myself out. It's strange the things you forget, and the things you don't. A scent that stimulates your mind, a place that awakens your soul after being at rest for so long. A touch reminiscent of a past lover, bringing to life feelings of nostalgia.

I'm untitled

I don't know who I am, at times. I feel like a million things all at once, then I feel like nothing. Abandoned at times by those I normally feel closest to. Being there for them, offering support, and at times, advice. But when I'm feeling lost, confused, and pushed down by the world, I'm alone. Left to forge my path, find answers, alone.

I'm a novel barely begun, and yet at times, I feel as though I'm midway through completion, without substance. I'm a writer staring blankly at a sheet of paper, or a computer screen, unable to write a beginning, only knowing a true, definitive end.

I'm a hundred paragraphs, unconnected, yet must be connected somehow. The lines that connect them are invisibly drawn, having yet to appear and make themselves known, for I must draw them myself.