Long breath out.

I stay up late writing things with too many layers of metaphor. At times I regret that I've never journaled properly. Poetry keeps feelings raw, but the actual circumstances become a bit fuzzy over time.

What is memory, and how is it preserved? I try to feel it- to keep what I have learned- in fragile lines. Words strung together on the threads of emotion: these feelings of incompletion, the unresolved question, the lingering doubt. Life filters through it somehow.