Lost Random Chatter

Riffling through old notebooks, I often come across my scribbles..
Intentionally left undated- debris from supercharged waves of consciousness, fragments that you could paste together to make a collage of my soul.

Here's an excerpt -

"When outside all is lovely, bright and clear, I sit hidden from the Sun inside my room. Curtains drawn, the yellow light of my lamp making a mockery of the day.

Stifling reds woven into the carpet and ink stains looking up in angry startlement. It's just me, my pen and my notebook. Thank God that the ink isn't black, or should I thank myself?

"Will you analyse my handwriting?"

"Do I shine through in the way my letters slant, or the height of my ts, or the fullstops or the lack of them in the sentences I write?"

To the inevitable, "Who am I?"

"Will you help me in answering such a trivial question?".... "

The irony that the last question is steeped in, twists in me like a knife.
If only I could go back and give me a hug...
" It's ok baby.... no one can take away from you who you are... Shhhhhhhh..."