Looking back everything sensual I have ever written has been in a rage.
If not a lie, even then just a spur of the moment.
Feelings are so transient, aren't they?
The sun doesn't come up two weeks in a row and you jot down a suicide note.
You weave expectations that are way out of proportions and then later reminiscence about how hope has always been a shattering force in your life ; An obsession leads you to compose a deranged proclamation of ever-lasting devotion.
You write about floating and you write about drowning.
You unleash the most terrible critic you would ever have on yourself, as you write about things gone wrong.
You compartmentalize all your worries in an extensive pros/cons list and there-in lies the decision of whether you would act upon the universe's calling or not.
Empathy is a word beautiful to pronounce, isn't it?
But when you empathize on paper, it is ugly.
If a thought you now can't possibly identify with, never a true thought to begin with?
Must each thought be entertained on paper when it shall cease to exist sooner or later?
And when it does cease to exist or if it is proved wrong, does the inked proof qualify as a carefully fabricated lie?
Spinning up stories is effortless.
I have been wanting to write for weeks.
The words just don't flow.
Maybe cause all I want to write now is the truth ; the naked truth.
Not facts, I have never been a factual person and I still want to explore emotions with the pen but when I look inside, nothing bleeds.
The truth is what needs to be penned down.
But I would rather write about the reactions towards the fact than the fact itself.
But there could be so many interpretations of a single fact.
Whose version is the truth?
