Writing is a beloved activity.
I write to soothe the endless stream of thoughts that ruin the stability that I aim to exude on ordinary days. I am a weeper, a darling of melancholic events. They chase me like unbridled unrequited lovers. Silently following the trails that I leave behind--unformed words, careless sentences formed in the middle of a long day, some which were tiresomely cast-off before the imagination could take place. I am the relentless bastard. Self-important. Chider. Maniac.
It is a bipolar world that I have chosen to live. Bipolarly stable and unipolarly, a mere dot. Circumstances drew me away from writing. A broken heart, a casual affair here and now, a steadiness of a line of never-reaching dreams. What more could make a writer throw away a pen and take to an addiction that ruins her life. Addiction, it is. Addiction to setting oneself to be crushed under the weight of a unrequited love. Even as the eluding lover walks back and forth, I squat on the cold sheetless bed, waiting. The seasons outside have changed-the dry scents of summers making way for an insidious mix of scents of the seasons thereafter.
The lover said he loved my words. He mocks me sweetly, slowly crawling into the last spaces that I have guarded heretofore. Alas! I fail to save myself. He creeps inside, furthering, burrowing within. My heart is there with him and I am lost forever.
My heart is the reservoir of my words. I am going to reclaim it back.