You can't help me deal with it. You can talk to me, you can give me a million-million pieces of advice, but you can't take this away.
It is energy. Flowing out. It flows out from me. All you can do is watch and sympathize. And you know what sympathy means? It means silence. Yes, because words hurt sometimes. They hurt most often. Words? They have no sounds. They got color and texture and depth. They are part of the energy. I don't wanna hear them. Just want to see them, feel them, plunge myself into their depths, be painted in them like the silicon on the white canvas.
I am kinda knocked out. Staring at the endless, black pit. The words are colorless. The canvas immaculate like stale innocence.
The energy has been wasted. Words have been left fluttering in the wind. Didn't get them. They heal. They lull us to repose. They have their magic also. And those you have spoken as though sustaining the hushed silence of unveiling. I have loved them. I will lie down and sleep comes at once. Because there is a music that flows from the silence of things like ethereal lullaby.