I write with my heart out.
When I couldn’t take it, I write it. When it’s too much than what I’ve asked for, I write it. When I’m suffocated, I write it.
Writing became my escape. It was my sense of relief and I’m thankful for it hurts a little less. Slowly and dramatically, thorns get pushed out of my emotionally wrecked self and eventually it breathes. The storm of thoughts make way to the beautiful day outside my window. As I write every pain away, I’m more and more getting in touch of reality and I’m very happy that I made another piece.
But should I be proud of something that has hurt me? In the middle of the day I raise it up high, trying to uplift myself with praises and admiration I get but at night, when everyone’s asleep and I’m the only one awake I stare at it with disbelief: how can something painful be this beautiful?
I tried not to read it because the pain never goes away. It was trapped. While I dwell shortly in reality, my pain that I’ve put in a slightly crumpled piece of paper is waiting to haunt me again sooner or later. I might have gout it out of myself but I’ve never really set it free.
Terrified for it to happen, I kept it inside an envelope and secured it in a box. “It will not haunt me again” I said. I tried to assure myself but deep inside I know, it will get out. For the hardest thing is to forget especially when it is kept in a crumpled piece of paper.