Catacombs

Without writing my thoughts, how do I live and breathe? How else would I decipher the catacombs of me? My feelings, thoughts and prayers, all inside the depths, live written in the memories, meanings and regrets. Without the writing tools, I use everyday, how else can I surface the things I which to say? There's nothing within my writing, nothing else to see, other than every living piece that creates the soul of me.