Every time I put my pen to page, the ink scatters in blotted swirls that torment me by muddling what I need to tell myself. The thoughts are brimming at the edge of my fingertips, but get lost in translation. The irony of calling myself a writer, when the words just won't come.
The thoughts will come, and they flash before my eyes in hauntingly beautiful images and memories. They do not seem to care how they torment me either, by showing me everything I've lost and all that I have yet to lose. They aim to drive me mad.
There is so much I've yet to say, if only I could pull apart the entangled webs of my emotions once separate, but now mingling and mocking my need to move on. Maybe I've long since held what was already gone, and that's what makes this so much easier.
"Is this really good for you?" I've been asked, and while I ponder, I realize I had been ready to move on for a year, but having turned away from so many for so many times before, it would not be out of turn to say I was afraid of ending up alone. It would be right to say I still am.
There is nothing quite like facing the cold nights without the warmth of another, nothing quite like getting excited and having no one to talk to, and nothing quite like realizing you will once again have to explain the horrors of your past so the next one might hope to understand.
And yet, there is nothing like seeing the horizon lighting up with hues of sunlight, reminding you there is always another to come, nothing like seeing the horizon shrink away to deep shades of sorrowing darkness to remind you there is always another to go.
This constant war we wage trying to find the light that will stay--the warmth with us on cold nights, the voices comforting us through our life, the understanding without needing a word--is lost as we walk through a life where nothing, good or bad, can stay,
A world where nothing can remain.
~E J Royson
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