I want to fill a page with the beautiful things I can't put into words, the thoughts I can't wrap my head around, the essences, the ideas I've tried to phrase and failed.
Scratch that- I want to fill page after page with the beautiful things, always just far away enough in my mind to baffle and frustrate me, these things that live so close to my heart but I cannot know. Maybe they carry themselves out in the realms of my mind, frollicking around in dreams I won't remember in the morning. Sweet summer air thick against my skin, ivy winding its way up a trellis, the sun dimming but still there on a gloriously quiet evening. The idea of early morning, dark and hazy, someone whistling or a bird chirping or nothing at all on empty streets flanked by cold, wet grass.
The words I write here could be pretty, I think, but I don't know how to put them that way. Maybe this is because I've caught these things only in handfuls and gasps. Maybe this is because they're only meant to live vaguely in my mind.
Maybe this is because these things, these and the many others clinging quietly to my mural of beautiful things, don't want to be written or explained. Maybe they do this because they can only really be experienced.
Or maybe the right word would be this one: dreamed.
The way this was written was poetic in itself. It is frustrating though to have those things you want to say that would be beautiful but you can't find a way to express them or describe them with words or at least the right words.
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