Honesty.

I want honesty.
But I dont know what is the right thing to do with it. Because everything you say makes me do something.

Like when you once said to me you dont read poetry or abstract artistic writing.

You were not trying to hurt me. You were being honest. I know that. I believed it with all my heart. The intent was pure.

I was not.

I just couldnt help feeling trapped by my own nature. By my own self being.

I want to be like ground and machinery. All solid and quiet. And content with what is. But its hard to make the sky fall. To keep a bird still. To close the lid on these feelings.

To stop writing. Like this. Again.