Writing is nothing more than a guided dream -Borges.

---began editing for the first time ever. i've resisted up until the very last hours that it is due and i found myself writing impulsively in a direction that i am shaken by, where, whether obvious or not, a relation was made and the personal revealed alas. there is always two points in writing, the one you intended to make and the one that surfaced after the fleshing out of what you were allowing your mind to hold in attention. there is always something and someone else behind the image seen. there is always two truths in every story-two sides that are committed to the same one relation-one being what you share from boldness, what is easiest to believe and admit to yourself. and the other, you didn't notice to be true because you had been denying it, that exposes itself after integrity, that allows itself to be made once you let yourself go, once you get out of control--

add ons:
Suspended between the life and death of day, the soul falls beneath its body as the sun sends forth its final yawn. One is enclosed inside this engagement—behind the curtains of an enormous sky, one goes wandering. Feet feel lifted, as time carries one disorderly, illogically but within certain reason. Here time moves without routine and one gives in, without a fight, for the sleeper knows that he must be moved and that his motions transcend what matters to his mind.
------------------------
I try hard not to regret the time invested in this engagement. How having it stolen from me has left me feeling estranged. How the mechanics of my memory have already been conditioned to go missing. How if I were the conductor controlling all directions of my life, I would operate according to alternate plans. How I am expected to make no mention of its trace by concealing the manifestations with stony and severe silence. Yet, enclosed behind the gates of silence, I speechlessly resist this refrain. Unable to compromise, I feel like the material should matter. Unable to deny that my involvement with a relation should have me feeling connected, not fixated on my current frame of mind and position in time—that of disjoint and fragmentation. Where is the stage of my youth where a sprightly young blonde stood open to and in view of the world? Where I wandered, ingenuously, through ponderings. Where my impartiality kept me feeling wholehearted, unmoved and grounded in the present. Where happiness was easily spoken about and just as easily done. Where eyes were dewed with enchantment—not sleep—and fiction felt real. The reality that broke off, falling forgetfully into oblivion, where did it go?