I am in ruin but much like a relic


It feels as though there is nothing holding me together, yet I haven’t been torn apart. I can’t tell what this feeling is. This feeling. Feelings. Feeling is what I’m doing, but there’s nothing in my hands. The tangibility of this feeling is only solidified by the tug-ability of my heartstrings. I can’t tell what this feeling is, but my heart can.

Maybe the divots in my brain are caverns in my heart. Maybe one word occupies one neuron in my brain, whereas my heart forms multitudes of multiplicities just mentioning that mingling meaning. This feeling is what connects my brain and my heart.

But, this junction is a crossroads of confusion and doubt. 

I am not quite sure of what’s sure. What is certain, and what is certainty? What am I supposed to do if nothing is guaranteed? The lines I’m coloring within are dashed, and that means one thing: my color will leak from the perforations of safety and stability. The wax of my crayon will fall upon the boundaries of unbounded territory. Then what? 

I have so much entailing my questioning. Questioning. Questions. Questions are what I am asking, but questions as to what—I am not sure. There is a lace detailing the corners of my questions, but where are these corners, and where are the edges? What is the shape of my question when I’m questioning the abstractness of my questions themselves?

The tangibility of this feeling is only solidified by the tug-ability of my heartstrings.”

Surely I can’t ask a question when my own confusion is confounding the very confines of my cranium. Then, at the same time, the confines of my cranium are caverns in my core. I can ask a question without knowing the question as long as I know the quintessentiality of said question. 

If this question is about a feeling, and my feeling is questionable, then the blame is surely between my heart and my head. A fault put on the saturation of such sentimentality is simply solved by examining the solubility of this saccharine sadness and spreading it: spreading it out and spreading it in, spreading it smoothly and spreading it soundly. 

Mentality, however, isn’t smooth. Mentality: the meeting of heart and head, the mix, the mesh. Spreading something as to create smoothness on anything is not a willful task but more of an act that tasks your will. Tasking my mentality with a mental task will do nothing but tax my mind with unmindful tasks. 

That must be it then; this feeling is just questioning my own minding—the questions my mind is feeling. Trying to smooth this shamble would be marginalizing mayhem. 

I think I’m better off without knowing what it is I am feeling because there isn’t an answer to my question.