Drops of ink

I haven’t written in so long that it already feels foreign to me.

No, wait. Let me correct that.

I haven’t written about you in so long that it already feels foreign to me. That… or maybe the thought of you is already foreign to me.

I always tell myself to try to forget, and to try to move on.

Keyword? Try.

I said these words a million times before. I’d repeat the sentence over and over again until it all jumbles up in a blur– until I move on from the thought of moving on. Yes, I said the same words a million times before, quite carelessly if I may add. I’d throw them in every paragraph my actions speak until I believe the words to be true and real. I said the same words a million times before, trying to convince people that I truly was moving on. But in truth, I knew I wasn’t, not even close.

For so long, I have said the words without noticing the detail I meticulously emphasized myself. I became careless with the same thing I was so careful about. And for the first time, I actually paused and allowed myself to take in every word of the sentence I always tell myself.

Try to forget and try to move on

keyword? TRY.

It was a word I always pointed out, yet at the same time, it was also the word I unintentionally disregarded in the million times I said the same sentence. Because of this, my words were always empty.

So i said the words again for the million and first time with every word in mind. And for the first time out of a million times, The same words were different altogether. The same syllables rolled out of my tongue with a new stroke. The words I said over and over again finally came out in a different light. My words were no longer empty because for the first time, I allowed myself to immerse in the gravity of the word that could either make or break the statement, and for the first time, I actually tried.

And so, I decided to take a break from writing about you. I told myself I needed to stop concretizing the feelings coursing through every beat of my being whenever I think about you– just about you. I never really planned a hiatus. I didn’t want to stop writing. I just wanted to stop writing about you.

I never meant for the pages to be completely blank after your chapter. But, I was left with a lot of spaces to fill, and not even a single drop of ink tainted the clear sheets screaming for words to be tattooed on them. I tried to make the letters sit on paper, but they refused to be fine print– permanent and final. I couldn’t form a single sentence, not even a single word about the infinite things around me– excluding you of course. But isn’t that the reason why I couldn’t jot down a single letter? As a writer, I was paralyzed because I was limited to an infinity that excluded you. I could not write about anything because “anything” excluded you.

 I have come to realize that the thought of you is still not foreign, not even a little. The thought of you is not foreign at all. After so long, writing about you still feels the same. It still feels natural and easy, as if I never even stopped at all. The drops of ink crawl out effortlessly, and I don’t even have to try.

You are the only words I can write, and the thought scares me so much.


About mkaterpillar

In the realm of perhaps, chasing the limit of possibility. La Douleur Exquise

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