With trembling hands and a shaky heart, I write this to the person who claimed it to be a good idea to read this. But most importantly, I write this to me, who had her ink dry and her soul restless, fighting to release the words her mouth couldn't. Two years of crappy, meaningless chatter in my brain, and I dare not write a single letter.
Indeed there were times when I felt like my soul did not fit in this human shaped body. It all didn't make sense. I mean, the only thing that made me feel like all my systems were working together, hand in hand, in perfect harmony, was collecting words that belonged in the ashes, and creating something miraculous out of them. It all made sense; I was born to write.
Solemn and honest, it took so much bravery to be this fearful and still admit to the world that I'm mourning the death of my words.
But my dear past self, so much could happen in two years. Besides, you shamed me in all the possible ways, and reshaped me into a much smaller being, smothering my very bones with your never ending doubt towards me. I would lie if I said I didn't hate you for it.
There's this dusty old sad shelf that hangs on one wall in my brain. It's where I put all the things I beg myself not to think about. Happy to tell you that the load got so heavy, and the shelf broke. And the things I begged myself not to think about are fleeting out of me like crows that have been caged for a damn century. Now, I thought it was going to be ugly, but it turned out to be liberating, and a bit too excruciating.
As a result of my shelf breaking, I declare to have found the matches that were able to light my fire once more.
I thank my teary eyes for witnessing so much ugliness, and not deciding to shut my lids down.
And as for my very self, I thank her for unwillingly living in black for quite a long time, and still not fearing white.
Curtains drop, the show is over.
Please do not applaud.
