I used to write a lot. “A lot”. when I say “a lot”, it means I am connecting some words inside my head trying to give out my extrapolation for any matter that I got every single minute. I have equipped my mind with countless thoughts- making sense or not. Words that seem to turn out to be just a mere piece of trash or what else? a necessity perhaps? I can identify which is which and which is not. That seems to be a problem here. It is hard to choose between words that you want and what you need. So I tend to never notice time or the sunset, neither the weather nor the fiests. I have never watched the clouds for a long time or throw a peeble in a beach. Needless to say but I was out of words , or maybe, just maybe, I refused to bleed.
Words were my arrows but I have ditched my bow. Words were the bloody red thirst of my sword but I surrenderred my plight.And my life is at its brink of death without my virtue, my weapon… my pen.
- Would you mind if I ask you to find my missing sword?