No matter what happens, the order never changes. The pen,
the paper and then the screen. The magic of creation becomes
a fake sting that doesn't even resemble an emotion when you
write directly in here, in the electronic world. So i grab
my pen and start. It leaks black ink on my fingers; slowly
my hand becomes black just like my mind. I finish writing,
pages full of scribbles, letters connected to words
connected to sentences. My hands are black, and I look at
what came out of me. Was this emotional stress worth it?
Does anyone understand the burden of revealing yourself
through writing?
I look at it like at a baby, like a painter who finished his
masterpiece, like a proud parent. This is me here, the black
ink is the blood I spat to give the world my inner, rotting,
self centered point of view on it. I am one, complete now, I
choose to let go.