Dawn

It's as if it's always been, as if it's always been foreseen - what happened then and what's happening now - I guess the two things aren't that different. And yet I write, it's not so transparent what I'm putting down in ink, somewhat cryptic, but somehow it makes sense, speaks volumes, conveys the wavelength I'm on at this time. Isn't that at the end of the day all that matters? To be able to express oneself, feel satisfaction at ones owns means of expression? Sometimes I find it all too much, I find it all too much because the world is a beautiful place - and I hold on to a feeling, such joy and elation that it overpowers me, it excites me, empowers me but makes me feel vulnerable at the same time. How can I, how can anyone describe such things?