My life in an inappropriate compilation of other people’s stories

“I forgot to write the dates in my diary”

It's a senseless collaboration of thoughts and stories and misunderstood feelings. No order, no logic, just a perfect truth that is too confused to be understood, but if only you could make sense of it you might come to understand some sort of centre, some sort of theme, or truth about life. About something.
I'm a senseless collaboration of thoughts and stories and misunderstood feelings.

I have a large pine chest in my mind. It smells good when I open the lid, like emotions and dreams and christmas. I have all your secrets stashed in the left side. 

There’s a soft graveled voice here.

There’s a hole in my stomach, and speeding down the highway with your eyes filled to the brim.

There’s that look you have of the secret thoughts you won’t even share, but that I can see them in your eyes.

“Dear mummy, dear daddy, something’s terribly awry”

The careless voice you used to disguise the earnest weight of the situation, there’s the back room, and that question with a smile, and a hidden dose of fear.

There’s the smothered laugh, and the story that comes with a song. There are letters upon letters. There are days in the playground, there are long talks, and long walks, a little bit of jumping up and down, and a little bit of amazement.

It’s your history, your fearless emotions, and whether or not you like tomatoes that makes up who you are. Whether of not you like cats. 

How loud you laugh,

how fast you run,

do you read the word ‘extraordinary’, as meaning ‘special’, or ‘twice as ordinary’,

who is on your laminated list.

That’s what I do. I collect other people’s stories, and feelings and loves, and I hold onto them, and cherish them, long after the 'other people' have forgotten them.

If you call me

I won't answer

I am sitting under the moon

Inside of a wheel barrow

My desk drawer is filled with sealed, unsent letters. they are a collection of my own thoughts and feelings, and loves and cares. I keep them to myself, safe in a drawer. One day, when you are too old to remember what I meant, I will give you your letters.

Hindsight is 20/20.