Knowing what’s hidden beneath someone’s clothes.

I seriously do not know what is wrong with me. I don’t think it’s a gift. Maybe it’s just a habit that looks like something engraved in my brains, like a gift or something. And I love the word something. It’s probably because I’ve been in the situation, or I am in the situation. Or whatever.

I just know. What’s hidden under those re-quotes. Under those words, like knowing when a song is really sad but it sounds like a happy one. I know that those words are wished to be sent to someone, because I, myself, would like to tell someone and even the world what lies under this recently-silent tongue.

And I think sometimes, my “knowing” is the reason why I get sad. Because. Just because. Knowing isn’t something to regret. It’s just, bothering. But I get over it. I try to get over it. It’s like, when a person plans to go to the beach or a pool and wears a shirt, I know that because of her eagerness to swim, she has a suit inside that shirt. A hidden meaning for every word. A secret ingredient written on a top-selling book. A note posted on streets. A thought under an idea of the world. The specific beneath the general. 

I’m not even sure if I made sense in this. 

Point is, I know what’s going on. I know the words. I know the feeling. And I’m not sure if it sucks or what.


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