Purpose- is what I've written about before. Constantly remembering it's worth and meaning- an unhealthy obsession with its grey eyes and silky melodies. I looked in the dark places, praying to the empty sky for a sign that I might be lucky enough to stumble across this treasure.

Remember when I fell into the crisp mountain snow, numb from its icy surface and wondered how I wandered this far? I didn't find what I was looking for. I wasn't running away, I was walking with an unknown destination with high hopes of finding a speck of gold. Shimmering isn't what I got- I experienced iron and its taste on my tongue as I spewed negativity where I didn't want to be.

Dread weighed me down more than the weight I couldn't keep off. Yet there i went wandering. Not physically anymore but in the infinite fields of my brain, looking for something that could sustain my wants.

Keep walking. If you run then they'll think you don't want them, and they don't want to hear that truth. Who would?

Poetry wasn't my purpose. How could these subpar words link together what I've been clawing at for forever? They're here as a net to catch me when the world's dynamite of disappointment throws off my balance.

Does anyone ever really know the answer? To anything? To everything? Of course not. But by some miracle I refuse to believe that. I won't compare this to an artist's struggle to understand the white void they continually study. I'm not that predictable I hope.

I was about to be certain of my qualities but remembered my earlier statement of how you cannot be. Constant contradiction. A walking book of facts that all turned out to be fiction.

I've left the point and rambled about more nonsense again. Only then do I remember why my thumbs move as fast as my interests. Proposing purpose is a regular habit and I'll never fathom how others ignore its lurking. What even is the purpose of this page of jumbled syllables? It's all temporary isn't it? Rudimentary writing, if you can can put it that highly, isn't for anyone but me.

I'm talking to myself like the lady down the street before they sent her to go get treatment for her mental distress. But this writing is my treatment. It brings me like a glowing ambulance to a disgusting yet somewhat curing room. Empty itself as the hallways crowd with more of something I can't decipher.

I'm not my writing. I don't have purpose. I never said my writing did either but maybe now I will. I'll tell my past self from five minutes ago to go fuck herself as I make my opinions shape shift. These words hold a syringe of clear something that clears my chest of the slime I must've ingested. It's raw. Pure emotion impaled with a knife made from the bones of my own past.

At last I come to what could be the end of these never ending sentences. Only for now though, until I find another word to dissect. I don't write for nothing. Nothing isn't able to help something. Nothing has no power. So maybe I have something, and maybe that's purpose.