So much less

I wanted to write about it all, everything that happens in a moment. Way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread, all our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it. Who we once were, everything in the world, everything all mixed up. Like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed... no matter what you start with, it ends up being so much less... terrifying pride, stupidity. Oh we wanted everything, don't we? - from The Hours

I could never paint, though I always wanted to...not that artisitic. But I admire people who can paint as a form of expression...their feelings, their thoughts, what they hold dear and the many things they fear. Yet all I have are incoherent words, that start of hoping to say so much, but end up doing very little. Yet words of others sometimes hit the mark, fill the unexpressed parts of your innermost thoughts with just one line, or a few strummed notes in a song. They don't always make sense, the simplest of words can move me to tears or make me smile. And I wish my words could do the same.