Words and sentences, sentences and stories


I'm tired. Exhausted, really. I write about all those epic stories that live in my memory. And I write about the bitter endings. 
I'm tired of it. I am tired of turning pain into something beautiful as art or poetry when pain is never beautiful. It's ugly, cruel and bitter. As I read the old pages of my diary I often sigh at scenes of love, at midnight kisses, at dancing in the rain, at red rosses. It is a fairytale for a little girl that lost touch with reality after reading so many novels with princes charmings. It's a girl that expects a happy ever after and all she ever ends up with is once upon a time.

My pen is leaking and the ink stains interline with the words. Sometimes intelligible, sometimes hidden. 
It feels like a prison of mind. The same words are painted all over the walls and others are kept out of sight. I'm locked in with only rats and dust keeping me company. Alone. Isolated. 

Sometimes that doesn't sound lonely. Sometimes I can live with myself. I can feel myself letting my surounding touch me. I am letting them get under my skin, make me feel, alive, cheerful, at ease. I don't feel that way with people. I wanted to share my little word with someone but every attempt ended poorly. Every bubble eventually bursted.

I ask myself why do I find my remedy in literature. Why do long paragraphs and poems make me feel fulfilled, more than people do. I read meanings, not just sentences. And they read me. I find myself in words. And I find words in myself. For a long time I haven't been able to put together sentences or to gather my thoughts. They disappear on me or disperse as soon as they appear. My mind is empty and I am filling it up with thoughts of others that are also my own.

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