Living in discomfort. My life is like the agonizing toil you try to defeat while tossing and turning in a bed that just doesn't seem to provide the right amount of comfort. Just minutes earlier I encountered the same dilemma, adjusting my body to match my thoughts that never seem to cease without some uneasy feeling, derailed from initial impulse. "To become an idea" I thought to myself, realizing the constant pull of thought from one direction to another. The urge to write is like the relief of a purge, one that rids all unnoticeable and unspeakable doubt, softening your surface and clearing your palette. To write is to rid yourself of baggage that only longs to be claimed. I am a body, torn by tendons that don't seem to be a bother when your hands are gliding over seamlessly. Whether it be the ties that secretly bound us together being forever strung or shall it only beb an act of instinctual desire or perhaps a promise we've both come to understand by the scribbles of our words fallen down each others ears with the faint whispers that only hush our tired eyes before we rest them, a reassuring silenced shadow that covers us each night with comfort.