This writing of mine has only taken me into hearts that don’t belong in ink, but rather in an atmosphere of emotion. An emotion so deep, you feel it crawling on your skin to your bones. It’ll make your soul cry. It has taken me into lives of which I can’t bare to live and into the eyes of people who are taking the day as it is. It has given me the ability to name a certain object and make it dance, make it move, or simply vanish. I’ve molded worlds from a simple seed of hope, heartache, and compassion, but I destroy them overnight with apathy and indifference. This writing of mine tells truths and lies, straightforward or vague, only I know what I mean and only I can tangle myself with strings of deception.

I take this heartache, this melancholy feeling that sits with me. I give it a name, but I won’t say it. I’ll give it a reason, but I won’t say it. This writing of mine knows everything about me and the paper can feel just how I feel. I find it often strange that this is my wholeheartedness, it’s my mirror on the wall. This is every bit of me written in these paper lines.

I am this writing of mine, but who am I in real life?

I can’t make myself vanish.