365 Attempts (At Life)

I haven’t felt every feeling. Surely there’s something left. Not just glimpses that get swallowed up inside a vacuum when I’m dreaming. And what is a dream? If not a feeling you had once that morphs until you wake up. Pieces of everything and remnants of fiction. Scattered and strange. Were you a dream? Or did you just feel like one?

There's something about you and the moon that I can't quite separate. 

That’s the thing with emotions, just when you think you have reigned them in, something, unexpectedly, sets them off.  And your feelings run amok.  Coloring your night an entirely different shade. Of red. Blue. Or grey. Until they are satisfied that they have your attention. And that they've left enough paint on your hands, to finish the job.