Interrelation and Other Works

I know and I feel more than words, more than eyes can tell, struggling more than smiling; I know sublimity yet am fleeting, my mind racing, miles on miles, examining, feasting on famine, the storm, the silence within. I begin to never end, unraveling roads I travel, listening to emotions— I don't have much, but I have ears, talk quickly, assume I'm slow, teach me, I've grown, challenging the ground beneath, rambles of thoughts, we think with our feelings; alone, collectively, this is our problem, daily learning, involuntary thoughts. I didn't have much ground to stand on to face my feelings, stuffing them with logic, rarely sitting without emotion, feeling strongly, passing quickly, people around me know, see me up close, walking through waves that wash over, fleeting.

My perception shapes actions; feelings, emotions intertwine, make an effort to observe moments, impact, hope, grow, experience how to interpret— when will I know what to do, how? How do I find what I need when I don't know what I seek? Should I look? Am I looking? What are friends? What is family? What is affection? I have them, yet I wait for life to kick in, though I am already living, lost in the act of being. I don't know how to live in likeness to anyone, is there a correct way? I'm trying to enjoy my spirit, to find connection; this is all I can really do. I am ardent of the world, curious about all it holds. I need to accolade what I want, not subject myself to others, take me; I must place myself in the right situations, navigate those that aren't. I've filled my water, predicting eight more glasses today, the bottle on my desk living a better life than I.

I want to express myself but don't know what about, what to write; assignments loom, stressful and overbearing, adding to my lack of plans—equaling out, leaving mental disparity. Sometimes I feel seemingly non-existent; my friends tell me I'm doing something good, but most hours pass without flair. I don't know where to go, where I'll end up; I have interests— philosophy, humanities, art—but trouble transforming interest into skill, putting studies into terms that lead to success. Imagining the American Dream, I know I must carve my path, experiment with correspondence as a social scientist, sit and write, observe what unfolds, analyze, interpret—real, abstract, implied.

I seek deeper lines, keys to potential universes; he stares, paws for attention. I keep breathing, loving him, discovering what I cherish, finding tranquility in the things I see, embracing the feelings that lift me—the boost, the confidence, the quiet strength of being.