walk
Words. I have too many, yet speak too little. I have these ideas, these fragments, these stories that never get told. Stories of myself, of you, of her, of it. I’m drawn to creation and I hate it. I hate how my voice isn’t heard, and how everything remains in slivers of thought. I hate how every time I write it needs to be a pitiful metaphor for depression. Because honestly, who am I if not made of misery?
Rainwater always finds its way back into the sky. Just to fall back down to earth again in a cycle of repetition. The same wake of silence will follow the storm, though cold and lonesome, it comforts. She walks down the rain-soaked street. The streetlights are dim lighting the uneven sidewalk, carrying her soul onwards. A wire carries the gentle sounds into her ears, reminiscent of the world around her and enhancing the solitude she faces. Thoughts are scarce, echoing with things she said, things she knows. She knows it will rain again.
So she walks. Forcing herself into a dark and chilling comfort. She will blindly walk until the fog has condensed around her and the sun has set. Her story bleeds in her bag, a tightly-bound set of pages that ask to be torn. An idea festers in her mind, one of desire and sorrow and hatred. Once home, she will open the pages, and etch in blood once again.
I write again. Why do I write? Maybe this time it’ll help. It used to. It used to bring comfort before it became a horrible amalgamation of words with hardly any meaning. What happened to the words that comforted me? Where's the contentment I felt every time I finished a paragraph? Have I worsened to the point where no amount of my guts spilled will dull this weight on me?
I’m hopeless. I’m running out of ideas. I’m running out of metaphors. This purpose is being stripped away from me. I keep just failing, I keep losing the progress I so desperately strive to achieve.
I need to say it bluntly. My desperate attempts at asking for help are pathetic. Why write when no one reads it? Why cry when no one hears it? Why scar when no one sees it?
I don’t know. I’m done writing.