intriguing anecdote, brethren

I’m writing about a feeling, a feeling I somehow cannot understand, a feeling that I cannot explain. I’m writing about something that doesn’t exist. This feeling, I want to know what it is. What’s inside me? It’s not love, it’s not hate, it’s not the feeling of grief nor anger. Am I afraid? I guess you can say that. Yes, I am afraid, afraid to let go of something I’m not finish with, something I’m not yet tired of handling.

Cold, my hands are so cold. They are shaking, my whole body is shivering from the cold. I just want to hold the thing I am most afraid to lose. Although I have the feeling of bitter pain as I hold this, as if I’m holding a flat iron; I don’t know if I should get burned by the heat or the cold. This cold, it’s burning my skin. The sun is making me shiver, and the rain melts my skin. What is this feeling? It hurts to leave but it’s killing me, it’s really painful. What is this? What the fuck am I typing? I’m not even making any sense. What the fuck?