Analogies

I had so much to say that I had to write it down in my own way. It was paper that had been written on before, but in different corners of the page. I wrote over words that had been written years ago, a long, long time ago in a different world. New words, clearer words, words with different meanings to those written before. I will remember these words now though, now they're written down for my eyes only to see. I probably should have written on a blank canvas, I probably shouldn't have written at all. But writing feels good. I wrote longer words than I'm used to, outdid my previous scribbles and note-takings. But not as many words as I'm capable of. Maybe one day I'll write an entire novel. Maybe one day I'll write and write and write until I am no more. I wrote through the anger, I wrote through the tears that have returned. I cried until the tears dried up, until I shook, until everything ached. I feel drained in more than one sense of the word. But I feel like I should keep writing, carve words into the paper with all my remaining strength until it rips. I feel like I could write forever. Pages and pages of thoughts and feelings that can never be erased. Irresponsible writing that can be read by others should I wish to share, but never understood. My own secret words. In my own secret language.

Why don't you be the writer and decide the words I say?