That this ink still flows onto pages warmed by the sunlight. I still have the words inside my heart. So often I’ve spilt them like a tumbling mess of insecurities. Line after line of wishful thinking
Sometimes the pages feel so rough as if all of these emotions have been soaked up, the spine cracked from the weight of this world. 
What was important to me then remains the same, but I no longer stumble blindly into rules written for another individual who came before me. 
What have we done to stop this tide? What categories do we place ourselves into for the sake of filling time. Lonely hearts and horoscopes of which I could never be a part. 
The unconditional is still bound by conditions.