On Writing

In the dead of the night or in the sunlit skies, solitude is a friend. Silence envelops you and you nestle in the embrace as you would succumb in the presence of a lover. In that silence, words haunt you. Your fingers shiver and the shivering only gets worse as the fingers get hold of the pen and the paper. The fingers won't hold steady so you seek recluse in the keypad. Your fingers tiptoe for a while and your mind is a clean slate again.

Your feet drag you to your safe haven. Only that it isn't your safe haven anymore. The cheer of the festivities surround you not. The mundane rings of the bells on the cycle populates your world. A hint of the childhood innocence peeks through in that moment clad in the urban cacophony of grime. Oh the disgust of adulthood. You drag yourself back and the words that made sense to you a little while ago do not make sense anymore.

Backspace. And you start over.

The door of the wardrobe is half shut. The books peek through. You heart sinks in your ribcage and the rush gets you typing again. Pouring your heart out despite being the perfectionist that you are is the task at hand. The struggle is real.

One word,
After another,
After another.
There's a thought, a sentence.
The thought is a scream into the void.
The sentence is gibberish.

One by one, every word intoxicates you. You are stuck in a haze. The haze traps you and the shivering settles. Feels like home for a while. Until you are drained. The high slips away.

And you stare at those empty words that once meant something to you if not anyone else. Every thought all over the place. The chaos, however, has just settled down. Only to resurface and stab your heart when you least expect it.

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