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One Line Resolution
I hope I will not have to wonder why my pen's ink flows only to the past.
![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/04ef80_3ae876af8c634a139630a1bfd7b4e173~mv2_d_2894_2170_s_2.jpg/v1/fill/w_980,h_735,al_c,q_85,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/04ef80_3ae876af8c634a139630a1bfd7b4e173~mv2_d_2894_2170_s_2.jpg)
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 ease 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.
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