The mind is a curious place. It can make you remember, or make you forget. Self-defense and self-destruction, separated by a fine line. In it we can live another life, be another person or just curl up under a warm blanket and stay still.
It can produce words, the keys to the histories so rarely told, however complicated or shameful. The bridge between the imaginary and the real, from the heart to the lips. The answers to the questions, hidden within. Words; the downfall, the salvation. The power, the companion.
The home of emotions, although they always seem to crush your heart instead. The place of reason, of logic, and the nest of memories. Of knowledge, which really is all I have.
And I wonder how I can look into my eyes and still wonder what she looks like.
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