I WANT TO WRITE AGAIN

How long has it been?

To some, it may feel like forever… But to her—for her, it’s merely a passing moment… A blink of an eye, a swift of a millisecond.

Perhaps that’s how it goes when that one thing she had long loved doing, which she thought her life desperately clings on to, became something seemingly… dispensable.

The thought makes her sick, while the unfamiliarity knocks her off the curb every time it occurs that she stopped doing what she had lived all her life with.

When did it stop? When did she stop? Why did she stop?

She couldn’t fathom either. She might’ve presumed that words work when she’s on the brink, but she’s always been, yet what happened?

Was it a heartbreak? Was it pressure? Was it because of the priorities she could no longer juggle?

No, she could never. In fact—all her life, if any, it has been something she could never let go of. She just can’t. It’s what kept her sane, it’s what kept her going, it’s what kept her bleeding… through pages, through every breath, through every tear shed, even when everything felt scattered—

Scattered that she can’t find herself, shattered that every piece tramples over her.

Where did it go wrong? What happened to the lass who once wrote tales of bravery and change?

I barely know. All I’m certain is… She wants to write again.

But maybe… words fail to come out into pieces everyone expects it to be—like a crumpled draft, a raw emotion, comes out strong but shunned by all—laid to repeat, tirelessly until death.