Timeless

To me, it is simply astonishing what events can unfold in the course of a night. Unrepeatable, I embarked on escapades that were not thought feasible just twenty minutes earlier. I'm glad I decided to put myself on the back burner and take others advice. I do feel like I'm some what using you, dear friend of mine, to escape the everyday troubles that I experience. I feel guilt. Let me make it up to you (even though you say I need not do so) and let me take you on an adventure that you may not see the likes of ever again. I let my tongue go loose and lose my control, but isn't that what you asked me to do? So why do I feel so guilty? Why do I care where you end up if it so you that gets hurt, not me? I can't help but think that deep down, hidden like that of an ice burg who hides his body bellow the ocean' surface, that I might actually care. It scares me. Despite this, I think I am only trying to be unbiased, taking the view of an onlooker. I don't feel that way! That is why this is so confusing. Hear me through, I still remain steadfast to my original goals, as much of a curse as that is, and I denounce any internal feelings I may have.

Most recently, I see myself, my life, the events of my existence, as being a book. Though the chapters are not numbered, I see the plot unraveling to reveal a story webbed together with irony and pattern. How cliche would it be for me, ME, to write a book about myself. I just can't see that ever happening. It's not that I don't think it would interesting, I just feel that having the urge to write an autobiography at such an age is preposterous. I don't think I am going anywhere soon, as in I doubt I will die in the near future. I'm simply terrified I am losing my thoughts and memories to the clock. What a way that would be to suffer.