A blank page full of opportunities. Lies there. It is just there, quite and inviting. An infinitive space for secrets and truth to withhold and keep. A place for every thought to expand and form. Official now for eternity. Can't go back, can't erase it, can't make it disappear or pretend it never occurred. But there is always another page, even more promising, like a tomorrow.A love song, a broken prose? A journal log telling of the colours of the sky of that Tuesday? Or a box where all he wrote is. Asking to save him, to come back for him. Forgive me.
It is not that there is not anything for me to speak of, it is the fear of what I might tell. I'm alone? How broken I am and naked in your arms? A letter bagging you to stay? Or how strong I am, fighting the dark? But what's the use, you won't be honest with me.
When I was a child I always knew why, I knew what to write, no prejudice of what is real. No pain. Every day then was something new and exciting, while now I am documenting the patterns of my behaviour, trying to chart it in order not to fall in a well of desperation again. Now for the love of God, it's sunny outside!
Damn you!
Oh, why is it more natural to feel this way and write of this stuff, why is it harder to write when high on dopamine? Damn me!
All that will make me better it is on my disposal, I am only in my twenties sucking on the resources of the world not paying taxes, but I just want to stay in my bed, hungry. I don't want to feel better, I do not deserve it, not yet anyhow.
I know I need to suffer, I need to know I have to pay, also I know I am going places. It is all leather and rust. Ageless and old.
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