I come to deafening realisations at the most inconvenient of moments, and I want to shout them from the rooftops...but there's nobody to hear.

I stumble across my profoundest of thoughts, when I don't have a pen or paper to scribble them down on. I wonder how many of these epiphany's of raw emotion have been lost because of this. And, would that mean that a little piece of myself was consumed and vanished with it?

I find torn pieces of paper amidst the confusion of my bag and books, with illegible scrawlings. If only I could read my own writing from those moments of trembling awareness.