scattered depth

I interrupt my inspiration with complacency. It takes energy to dig deeper, I know it. In writing this, I try to find it. And try again. Try, try, try. Try to find the right words to write without settling for something easy. Like telling the world I'm writing to "Her." Like telling the world I'm easing myself into a deeper layer with each sentence. Finding ways to ignore logic and structure, only to find a deeper structure that often goes ignored. From this deeper structure, I look up and plainly the see the scattered mind that is trying to look within. Trying to pull from depth and express it meaningfully. Try to go deeper, look downward again. Confusion begins. It wants satisfaction through easy, direct statements. Think about how they might perceive it, be certain this is what you want to say. It's truer to exist in nuance but nuance requires a delicate intelligence. Sometimes I can grasp nuggets, gold and silver. Sometimes I write using the metaphors that come to mind, as abstract as they may be, as wholly undefined. Sometimes I rhyme to find some other quality that may shine. Go deeper. I get glimpses of her. What she really means to me. I can grasp it just enough, just momentarily so I believe I can maintain it forever. To express it properly, for it to live in my mind and yours. I know how to make you smile. But it's fleeting, like a daydream. A daydream that occupies me. One in which I see the end before it begins. My end, our end. How my wonder goes from longing to confusion and to loss and depression. Yet, I find a way to love you, myself, and the world simply for what we are. That will happen again and again, no doubt. That's what many songs are about. I hold no resentment. The cycle is only reset, as it always is. Not for nothing, I learn from memories. I always struggle in the moment. I give myself time to digest. I digest through vague writing. I may be simple, I may not be quick or complex, but I do feel deeply. My simplistic linguistics must find a way to express. Otherwise, I'd turn into another wailing child, bashing my fist into the wall with no compassion. It's better to be a child of art than a child who hides. Better yet, a child of love, but we can't always play the roles we'd like to. We must learn where to direct our attention. The final words linger, unfound, in a vague feeling. Give me a few days, I will return to mindfulness. I'll watch the world with a careful, half-open eye. I'll watch myself for any signs of betraying myself and others. Please speak up, if you feel I'm hurting you. Give me time and patience. Don't be afraid to break my heart. The cracks are how the light gets in.