million stories
Inside the room of my house that stands on the end of the street lies a notebook. The notebook contains all stories.
The stories I ended up writing in there because I couldn't hold them in any longer. The stories that dripped through my eyes on the blank pages The stories that I intended to leave in the back of my mind. And the stories that pushed too hard on the wall that I built to protect them. They didn't want to be protected. They needed to escape. I take the notebook everywhere I go because nothing can make up for the loss of words into the air. You can't hear them again nor recall them and nor take them back once you've said them
I put those words into the notebook and remember the last time I did it. I had felt a rock rise slowly from my head and land on the notebook so no one else would read it. The cover of the notebook is brown with a single candle on the lower right corner. The candle is unlit and I have tried to light it up. I still do.
I spent few days in the room and it only reminds me of one thing. And that is my irrevocable desire to feelwhole again. I am whole now but not sure if of myself.
I write this down too, in hopes that the blank white page would understand it and provide me with solutions but it stays silently absorbing the ink of my feelings.
I wrote many stories in that book but one stands out. This one. I wrote a story about stories and it makes no sense. I don't want it to. I am still left with a million stories in me.
The stories I ended up writing in there because I couldn't hold them in any longer. The stories that dripped through my eyes on the blank pages The stories that I intended to leave in the back of my mind. And the stories that pushed too hard on the wall that I built to protect them. They didn't want to be protected. They needed to escape. I take the notebook everywhere I go because nothing can make up for the loss of words into the air. You can't hear them again nor recall them and nor take them back once you've said them
I put those words into the notebook and remember the last time I did it. I had felt a rock rise slowly from my head and land on the notebook so no one else would read it. The cover of the notebook is brown with a single candle on the lower right corner. The candle is unlit and I have tried to light it up. I still do.
I spent few days in the room and it only reminds me of one thing. And that is my irrevocable desire to feelwhole again. I am whole now but not sure if of myself.
I write this down too, in hopes that the blank white page would understand it and provide me with solutions but it stays silently absorbing the ink of my feelings.
I wrote many stories in that book but one stands out. This one. I wrote a story about stories and it makes no sense. I don't want it to. I am still left with a million stories in me.
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