Tell me when i lost it, tell me when it was just too late. I've been thinking that the words inside my head aren't alone, that there has to be the same set of words covering the walls of some mind out there. And when we think all alone across the globe, we're both holding the same piece of chalk or spray can and we're tracing the outline of the only thoughts we've ever had. That there is someone else that doesn't wake up everyday feeling the same way, and go through the same day in different places, and tell each other about it when all is said and done. Maybe i could write to you, whoever you are. Write you a ramble. It won't always be great, and it won't always be bad. I don't know what it will be like, and some days i may never want to write again. But i do know, that there is writing to be read. That behind the curtain in my head, bits and pieces show themselves, and sometimes they disappear the same. But while i have them here with me, i will continue to let them out. By them, i am referring to the very words that are written, and i don't know if someone will read this, or figure out what it means. 26 letters in the alphabet, but we have an endless sea of anything ever felt by anyone, depicted in their own unique way. I don't blame others for not reading words. I write and i still often do not read what others have to say. It might be wrong, and if so, write about it. Even if no one ever reads it, writing is not for the enjoyment of the reader, it is for the relief of the writer. It is meant to clear the clouds of haze or let a river splash onto the banks. I must warn you, that the pen or set of keys laid in front of you, can change everything you've ever known. For every time you write, the words transcend onto your skin. Yes, that is right. Every secret you have  put away, every angry scribble, and every tear ridden splotch, is displayed across your very being. Not everyone can read it. I don't know why some can and others cant, but when the right person reads it. They simply look at you. and they know everything. They know the real you, and often this is the very thing that wants to be tucked away; sometimes it is. Some want to be read, but no one around them can. Words are playful in this way. But i can say that when you are finally read, the feeling of closing a finished book will stun you, and you will sit for a moment and what happens in that moment shall forever belong to you. These very kind of words are exactly the type that are to be never read, for they are true. They may not be grammatically correct or punctuated perfectly, and that makes them all the while better. Writing is not meant for walls, rules, and limits.  After all, it is words that we use to escape those confinements. I do not know where i will be if anyone reads over this sentence, any length of time may pass. Whenever and wherever it might be, when it happens, it will be precious, for if i have gotten the attention of your mind for even a second, my writing will not have been in vain. And maybe those seconds, bit by bit, will add up. And i will live in these moments. Long after my body has passed. This is the only comfort i know. Even if it never proves to be true.Â
