In deepest waters

It wasn't with that thought...

          I opened the notes app to read some of the old written texts. Perhaps not to remind me what darkness I once experienced, but to identify a few shadows that still come my way.
I suddenly felt the need to write something else stained with sadness and bitterness. The need to give everything out and stop letting piles of unspoken words build walls around me to deprive me of the sun.

          Although still demolishing the old ones, I often look back on the ones I thought I would never overcome. Some remained intact, I only managed to climb their height and close my eyes until the impact with the ground on the other side. I had no ladder and no rope to descend smoothly. It was a full fall devoid of words of encouragement. I never thought the walls I carry inside me were so high.

          I didn't start writing with the intention of analyzing my mental or emotional state in too much detail. But, something tells me, that writing has always led me to bring my being out of the shadows and bring to light things that even I didn't know I felt.

          For, after all, we are the amalgam of things that come into being in the unknown. And I, I still don't know myself.

          Even though today has passed, maybe a day when I climbed another wall, I still attest to my ignorance of my own being.

          Although I find myself in the music I listen to; old drawings that talked more about how I felt than I did with words; rainy days; works of art in shadows of blue; books with less happy endings; children with sincere smiles and no motives; street singers; color spots on the walls of important buildings, considered vandalism; The poems written late at night when the only voices you hear are those inside you, although I recognize myself in all of them... I still don't know myself.
          It's a real and honest retrieval. I see myself in things and places that carry parts of me, parts whose lack has left voids within me over time.

          Nevertheless... It wasn't with that thought that I started writing. What chaos lies on the floor of the room where my emotions talk to each other. They debate issues like "Who is taking control today?", "Who will mess it up today?".

          Many intellectual people, from philosophers to psychologists and whatnot, have always attested that we have control over how we feel. Until you feel too much... Or, is it possible to feel too much?

          Too much is useless, unnecessary?
          Is it useless to feel a little more than necessary?

          How much is needed?
          How much not to destroy you, I suppose.

          But if you're not destroyed, how do you get to rebuild yourself? To be reborn, to become again?

          And yet... It wasn't with that thought that I started writing either.