Fragments
001.
I wish I could write.
I think I used to be able to. I used to let my pen roam over the page, and I would create something, and they would tell me it was beautiful, that it was a gift. They would tell me I was special. I even believed it for a while.
Just for a while.
But that's the thing with belief. It can be too easily shattered, and when it is, you realise that it's just a mirror. A smashed, warped image of hopes and dreams and wishes of what could be. And while I mourned over the death of what had seemed so infallible, they started.
Plagues of fragments, swarms of broken ideas that try their hardest to torment and then escape, and then when captured will not be completed. The words accumulate, hopeless shards that trail into nothingness, doomed to be unfinished for eternity. Finished sentences sour in moments, corrode at the slightest touch.
It doesn't make sense.
They are the same words. The same combinations of twenty-six letters with spaces or dashes or dots in between. But here, the words fall into a perfect order, fitting together perfectly, as if they were made solely to be read in that cadence. They spill across the page.
Inked words that turn into something else.
Something that can tug emotions out as easily as if they were red petals on a rose, something that can twist and tear deep inside. Something that can summon tears before you can blink, and then you sit and wonder at it.
Something beautiful.
I wish I could write.
I think I used to be able to. I used to let my pen roam over the page, and I would create something, and they would tell me it was beautiful, that it was a gift. They would tell me I was special. I even believed it for a while.
Just for a while.
But that's the thing with belief. It can be too easily shattered, and when it is, you realise that it's just a mirror. A smashed, warped image of hopes and dreams and wishes of what could be. And while I mourned over the death of what had seemed so infallible, they started.
Plagues of fragments, swarms of broken ideas that try their hardest to torment and then escape, and then when captured will not be completed. The words accumulate, hopeless shards that trail into nothingness, doomed to be unfinished for eternity. Finished sentences sour in moments, corrode at the slightest touch.
It doesn't make sense.
They are the same words. The same combinations of twenty-six letters with spaces or dashes or dots in between. But here, the words fall into a perfect order, fitting together perfectly, as if they were made solely to be read in that cadence. They spill across the page.
Inked words that turn into something else.
Something that can tug emotions out as easily as if they were red petals on a rose, something that can twist and tear deep inside. Something that can summon tears before you can blink, and then you sit and wonder at it.
Something beautiful.
I wish I could write.