it feels out of desperation that we cling on to the material that define us- a book read a song listened to a scarf complimented on. it is not good taste we wish to have a claim on but the fact lies bare in that we do not know what else we are. how afraid of using words, these glittering accolades which promises what we may not be able to keep, to describe our decrepit soul. it is safer to say i love this, therefore i am. to lay out all that we love in a line for counting and hope that maybe someone will see the coded message within and tell us we are beautiful.

or it could be to stake a claim on a gem and praised for a sharp eye and marvelous taste, but how unpoetic is that?

currently starting on: 36 Arguments For The Existence of God (a work of fiction)
no prizes for guessing what this says about my wandering self ...