Dear World,
I think I'm mad. I think I'm mad and sad and happy and hopeful and I'm feeling a little let down.
I think my soul is smoke. Not the Las Vegas smoke, more like the Wyoming fog. To be honest, I don't know if Wyoming gets foggy, but when I think of my soul, I think of the Wyoming fog. I think of how some times, it's so thick that you think you can hold it, and how other times, you'd hardly ever know it was there.
When I think of my soul, I want to imagine it open. It's so open, that everything comes flooding in. You'd see words like music and pictures like books and everything would blend. I mean everything would blend.
But yet, here I am. I'm mad. I'm mad at him. This is a poem so old, that it doesn't even deserve to be written. I'm in the same position I was six months ago. A year ago. Three years ago. I've been here a lifetime. And yet, everything has changed. A year ago my soul was chained. Nothing blended. The pictures were nothing more than pictures and the words didn't sound anything like music.
But yet, here I am.
If change happens in inches like time happens in months, this will pass. If I need a yard stick to separate my heart from his, I have to accept that a foot comes before a yard. This will pass.
Much love (I'm trying to put that out in the universe these days),
Baylee
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