31.05.22
21:21
We have learned that suffering is never poetic. That you cannot turn blood into paint. You cannot sweep the streets with desperation. October has been proof of this. The streets remain full as I beg for a hand to hold mine own- begging for friendship. We have learned that feelings are not tangible. That friendship cannot reach through the screen of my window and cradle me. You cannot speak to longing. Longing cannot speak. We have not yet learned to swim. Climbing from the well inside my heart the same muscles, perhaps. Legs and arms. I long to swim. But to swim-swim- I cannot swim. It is too late in October. We miss the water. It cannot be poetic to suffer and suffering cannot touch you in the cold Windy City. 2 blocks away I could learn to swim. I could also learn to drown. I long for something deeper than Lake Michigan- something poetic in the waves but it will not show itself to me. Drowning could be beautiful. Death is not tangible in the tides. I long to
/// 100th chapter. might end this here.