My emotions hide deep in the metaphors i steal from novellas around me. They hide in the commas where were told to breath.
Between words inked on paper milled from the trees once strong in the earth. They hide from me like the words not written between the lines or the lines removed from the final print.
They hide from me in ways others can read plan as a childs story book. I cannot name them like a child names is favourite toy yet i feel them as deep as one feels the love between romeo and julliet from a tale written from life times ago.
Yet i write these words that invoke these feelings among many when i cannot give them a simple name. For what if i feel 'bob' or 'Jenny' not anguish or ecstasy.
When your humanity hides in emotions you cannot claim what do you become but an echo chamber of mirrors reflecting the emotional battlefield of the stories you read, none of them quite your own but always handed to you as a gift.
