At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries, and eases the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self made prescription, wipe up the tears, and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
Here, everything spills into three quiet corners. A love of lines, where I collect words written by others that feel like they were somehow meant for me too. Diary entries, where life is kept as it is, unfiltered, unpolished, just lived. And creative writings, where I try to turn what is inside into something I can finally look at without it burning.
I've seen your friend today.
The first encounter was quick, silent, awkward and unpleasant. The second one, however, was better. Seeing him standing there a second time, familiarity surrounded his presence, and I remembered you. His voice sent a warm wave of safety across the air. I smiled, felt it all and carried on. For once, I didn't mourn your loss. For once, I felt no pain. For once, it was a heart-warming memory as it ought to be.
Comments