#shitisuck

I don’t know if I’m writer material but I've always known I’d write about you if circumstances favored that idea at some point in the future. I've always felt like everyone else not seeing you the way I do is one of humanities’ most unfair phenomenons. But to think of it…you can never be summed up within an entire book series, let alone a chapter. No number of sonnets, odes, quotes, tragedies, fairy tales, abstract ideas about hurricanes and time machines, drawings of pretty ladies and deathly thunderstorms, frustrating comparisons of my grounded stillness to your restless spinning galaxies…could ever sum up even a part of who you are and what it does to me. You’re hardly a word. You’re not a library. The deepest metaphors wouldn't do the justice. I can’t even capture you in the longest poem in the world. No one could. This is all I can manage with with a tool as rudimentary as words. You’d be the most frustrating muse for an artist because there’s not enough canvas paper in the world. You’d be the most impossible calculation for mathematicians because they won’t take infinite as an answer. Labels and a name are their only way of trapping you in a mold they can actually understand. And its all illusion. A big lie. You’re the cosmos. Still as static plane surface but also the wildest tide that could swallow up our shallow beings and ships. You’re auroras but also as sober as Burberry coats if you want. You’re the experience I've had the fortune of seeing, knowing and feeling, in the most uncanny of all places on this planet. I'll always love you for this.