You write, not to confuse yourself further. But to clarify things with your own mind. To be able to string together and group all those misplaced and wandering thoughts. To finally take a stand or a side on that never-ending debate between two organs that keep you completely alive. Should we let such senseless mediocre decisions stress the only two organs that keep us alive? is it worth all the head pains and heart aches? Eventually, you either learn to bury things you don’t want to feel or you write about it. Hoping that it’ll make sense by the last sentence. That little string of hope is what brings you back to writing. It’s an easy escape. An easy way to figure things out. A quick fix, in lay mans terms. Of course, something can be fixed only when its broken. But who’s to say whats broken? Who rules on that? Us? Them? Movies? The king? What if we were never broken like they said we should be after that one person ripped our hearts out? what if we never broke when we lost the one thing that meant the most? What if we were just scratched? or dented? After all, you can’t fix a broken mirror or a broke plate. But you can still see yourself in a mirror that was scratched, you could still used a slightly dented plate. It doesn’t have to be fixed. It’s just needs to be put to use.
These are just misplaced thoughts hopelessly clinging on to misplaced words.