Fickle, Fuddled Words Confuse Me; Like, Will It Rain Today?

There is no one thing. But let's just say that there's a reason, or two.

It's in the way I rub my nails against my lips when I think. It's in the way I feel when I smile at the sun, or breathe in used books. It's my clammy palms and sensitive teeth. It's how I can listen to a song on repeat and have it sound better and newer with every play, the beats of my heart keeping with the rhythm of the music. It's being in love with the world. It's hidden in the crinkle of my smiling eyes and how my words come out when I'm holding the laugh in my throat. It's sitting cross-legged in a movie theater or walking barefoot in the grass. It's my complication and almost incomprehensible ill-logic, but totally lovable soul. It's why I say that January was a cold and lonely month, why I was a different girl in August. It's the map of the world in my back pocket. It's the potential and the capacity of my heart. It's why this is on the tip of my lip, crunching between my molars and strangled by my tongue. It's the reason I love really sharp lead pencils and unlined paper: it's capital R-Romantic and there's no reason at all. It's my quirk and my meaning. It's nothing and everything, all at once, and you need to be so much closer to know it. The distance between you and me is just so much farther than you thought, so much farther than ever before.

I wish I was a photographer. I wish I was a better storyteller. I wish I was a capturer of moments. I wish I could properly convey all the things that I see and hear and feel when I'm surrounded by beauty. The truth is, I am artistically homeless. I can't draw or paint well, but I wish I could. I used to be an instrumentalist and a vocalist, but now I can barely do either. I did not read the classics. I don't know Byron, Kant or Yates. I'm not a capital W-Writer, not an Artist with a capital A; I'm just a capital B-Blogger, capital C-Completely full of myself.
4:37 pm