I give you my jacket,I give you my heart.

Listen carefully. I’m about to tell you a story. I don’t know what it’s about..but it is important.

Once upon a time I looked up at the stars and saw nothing but dark sky. I thought it was beautiful like that, all dark and plain and not trying to be anything. But then I looked harder. Nothing’s ever quite as great as we want it to be, is it? It’s all mismatched colors, and words that don’t make any sense, and no matter how hard I try to find the truth, someone is always there covering it up. I’m writing so fast that I keep misspelling words that used to be so simple. Where did I go so wrong that even a simple note about it makes my hands tremble? When did my mind become filled with excuses and dreams about who I could have been? I could have been a superhero. The fact that I am not troubles me more than I would like to admit. It would be lovely, don’t you think? To have a child look at you as though you were the greatest thing? To have story after fantastical story written about you, and yet not one of them measures up to the real thing. That would be beautiful. I might even cry.

But which would it be? I ask you here and now. Would you take my hand regardless?
And for a night with me, would you risk noon sun's furnace?
Thats when I realized that there is a time of night that looks just like the dusk
Where we walk in calmest strides for we've completed what we must
The cool wind on our neck and the grey clouds on our eyes.
The time will go where it is led, be it to or from the day's sunrise.

You see, I’ve been having trouble recently with this thing people often called “feelings”. They confuse me. But most of all, they worry me. Shouldn’t I be able to feel such feelings? And yet, so often I’m left empty, like a forgotten cup in the back of a kitchen cupboard. Eventually I’ll rot and become so filled with dust (that lifeless, thin residue that is never quite enough) that I’ll be thrown away. Still, I know that I am not dead because some things I do feel. It’s just other things. It really does bother me. It’s like…I’m in a large cave. Most of everything inside me seems nothing more than an echo of an echo spoken by someone at the mouth of the cave. It reverberates around me like words so often do when they’re yelled in, but it slowly becomes quiet. All that is left for me is this very odd whisper of an echo that doesn’t really make much sense. I guess I just wish that I was filled with a little bit more…exuberance. Something more like magic than this. Now please don’t get me wrong. I do feel. Oh how I feel. Yet, still, sometimes I’m empty.

I pray God fixes me soon.