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[knightofdandelions]

[ghostyped]

This is the second time I’ve run away.

[ghostyped]

There was once, I sat up in the middle of the night struggling for breath. There was a fear so deeply lodged in my gut and I started crying. I cried into my hands and mumbled about being afraid that I would one day stop feeling as strongly, as fiercely for something that I loved.

The very thought that I may one day look at it and feel absolutely nothing scared me to bits. I cried about it alone. Then I cried about it some people. They all told me that it is unlikely I will ever stop loving it.

But today as I write this, I realise that I already stopped loving it as much the first time I cried about. Maybe I cried about it because I already knew.

[ghostyped]

Love letter

My relationship with creation only serves to further claw into recesses of my mind that I don’t want to look at. Not only is the act of actually pulling pieces of my soul onto a piece of paper exhausting, it’s also revealing and therefore a painful process. I cannot say I don’t enjoy it. Because there is a sickening part of me that wants to lay everything down neatly, coherently - I haven’t figured if it is so that I myself can see it in clarity, or so other people understand. 

And yet, that still isn’t the worst part of it all. It’s not having all your cards on the table, or the effort it takes to slowly peel layers of you open. It’s after that. After everything, when you’re standing raw and out in the open; it’s when despite everything, all of that doesn’t change the result. 

Like screaming into a void, Rouis said. You aren’t even granted an echo of some kind. The blackness simply swallows all of your voice. You are left with nothing, given nothing, despite having given everything.