Saturday, 22 June 2013


Been a long while since I've felt this way. Been a long, long while.
Today, after a fortnight, writing is what I have found solace in. The pens moving, spelling letters, making words, sentences, and finally paragraphs.
There's something about a summer night. A lonesome summer night. It brings a gloom, grim and eerie beat to your heart. The intensity increases and so does the beat. Like fighting a couple of monsters inside you, not realizing who the real monster is. The hot air, no matter if the air conditioner is on, sways you along your past. You're entrapped in your own thoughts, the guilt and the regrets building in.
No, what's done is done. And what you've done is what's made you. But there are still the disappointments that remain. The disappointments in one's self. You try forgiving everything and everyone, including yourself, yet there's something that won't leave. That's engraved on your heart, like a stone engraved by a prisoner, counting days and weeks, until he can be free again. You're free, yet you're not. You're the prisoner of your own past.
"Cry; for it lessens the pain."
Yet, crying doesn't bring you happiness. Crying doesn't even removes the sadness. Crying takes you right back to where you started.
Emptiness. The emptiness within you.
It won't let you alone. found a paper and a pen. enclose all your feelings to a friend who'd never betray you; paper. let it move along you, by you, with you; pen.