To exist amidst the fire might be too much.

It had been a long time since I'd actually written a poem or a piece of poetic prose. I don't really know what that is, but after a while I managed to write and, most importantly, finish one, or rather, two. The part I know it sounds silly to say this, but it was important to me. I feel lost most of the time, and in the end, I'm just trying to find myself, even if it's through problematic things.

Perhaps for me, there is no right word to describe how I truly feel. Not even a thousand words heavy with melancholy, nor the songs of Jeff Buckley—or better yet, Radiohead—could capture the whole of me; perhaps because I am too much? Or perhaps because I am too little to fit entirely into just one part? Between sunrise and sunset, I would fit into a Sunday afternoon where the sun is accompanied by rain, bringing confusion. Perhaps I find myself somewhere in the midst of that—in the moment the sky weeps over a death, or when a rainbow appears after a great storm; perhaps in those moments, I exist. In those moments when empty promises are made to get something. In the instance where an "I love you" turns dark—it is in the most contradictory parts that I must exist. In underground music, where the feeling of not belonging prevails, where singing about suffering is a hallmark and romanticizing pain is the norm—perhaps it is in those troubled parts that I exist. From the first breath to the last, where everything remains new—do I exist? I know I exist somewhere, though perhaps not in this world. Perhaps it is within the wildest forms of madness the mind creates—in the darkest depths or even the calmest stillness—perhaps in any of those places, I exist.