Poignance

As I leaf again and again through the pages of crisp white of my fabric-black hand-written journal, it struck me just how much poignance I possess deep inside of me; that it breaths life into my writing, from the elusive chambers and fleeting imagination in my mind and the incomprensible yet all-too-familiar ache in my heart. The words athwart the sour-crisp, immature pages stared back at me like a familiar, old friend from out of nowhere at all; out of eternity and out of my head.

I am an intrinsic, imaginary writer and poet of sorts - a wisp of complexities in the shape of a boy. Yet a poor writer, I confess I am. And how my immortal dream never dies - black and white, cigar and brown leather, yellowing pages from the faithful Underwood, nineteenth century reverie. I long to touch - time.

Alas, these words are mine. I am a simple boy who dreams of a crazy and beautiful love (of a lifetime, no less). And so it is, that I am not quite the web of complexities and intricacies those of you conjure up, in the chambers of your minds.