The Sweet Life

I sit here thinking, how could I speak to what is in my mind?
I am not as well spoken as he is.  My voice trips over itself and I stub my tongue on the stones of my teeth.
I am not as delicate as she is with prose fragile feelings and empathy.  My mental fingers grasp and fumble and shatter beautiful things.
I am not as blunt, as honest, as true as those two opposite sides of the coin.  The woman that feels she is selling herself and the man that would pay any price to let her know she is precious.
I lie to myself.  I hide my truths under translucent blankets that don't cover my feet or my face or my shoulders.  I am so fucking vulnerable and my words have become anorexic.  Thin and malnourished.
I have forgotten how to read and never knew how to write or speak, even after those remedial classes.
I have taken to listening to others words, viewing others minds and art, feeling others feelings.
I use them to define my own.  I use them to validate myself, to anchor my raft on unsettled and rolling waters.  Everything touches me.  Everything moves me.
So I set myself apart.  I did this a long time ago.  My little slip set adrift and seeing nothing but the tempest I have never had a reason to come to shore.

I have begun to eat words.  I have begun to feed on art, music.

Well, I suppose I will see what comes of it.  At the moment I am distracted.