I read the old words I wrote when I was younger and god, she had such stars in her eyes. She asked such questions, walked with such purpose, lived with such endlessness. I want to weep over the words that are good. I ask whether I really made them. I know that I did. The inside of my head was beautiful. The way I looked at the world was beautiful.
Am I less now? The words seem heavier, stiffer, less flung and chaotic. Stars chimed behind every syllable back then. Now I hear only my own silence, the stifling overwhelm.
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