I always loved writing, until I don’t. The words no longer make sense, and the meanings they hold are flat and dead to me. I don’t know what changed, but I guess it is about time, for nothing last forever and neither is my ability to put my thoughts into order, apparently.
As my fingers jump around these colourful pads, I can’t help but notice the grammar mistakes I’ve made and the inappropriately placed dictions. Writing – or typing – and putting my musing into memos should, used to pause my wars, putting the troopers into sleep. Not anymore.
Writing has become the enemy; I see words and I hear mocking. Alliteration is abominable to said writing. Using simile and metaphors sound platitudinous, and nothing is good enough.
And so I’m done. I’m sorry if my writing’s too authoritative, too stiff, too vague. I’m sorry that my writing is most probably full of grammatical errors, not concrete enough, not specific enough. Most of all, I’m sorry that in a very near future I might no longer feel sorry anymore. For these rules that bound me, they’ll no longer have me as a hostage. Soon, I’ll be able to hopefully pour these thoughts of mine, filling the space with locutions, where they belong. Where they can no longer haunt me at night, where they might shed some light and rise the sun up.
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