I haven’t written for quite some time. I regularly check this blog but I have so much chaos in my head that I can’t fathom it into words. Just swirling vortex of grey terror.

Much had happen. I can remember approximately one exceptionally good thing this year that it was worth a thousand Patronus. It made me invincible for the rest of the winter.

At 31 years old, I can say that I am beginning to understand life a bit further. I like being alone but I don’t fancy being lonely. I sculpt my words differently. I read and drink more coffee. I try to grab hold of hope instead of chasing dreams.

At least I can sleep now. Not soundly but I still have years to practice.

I have a routine. Just like practice. I try to write 10 pages a day lately. I was supposed to send my second manuscript but the ghost of the plot vanished. Instead, my hair was pulled into a star that refused to stay dim. I wished that one part of me could drown in memory but the light was too bright to smother with silence. It was a true struggle and I lose. There is no heavier burden than a story untold.

It’s one way of me creeping up to happiness, by basking in the golden light of the repressed past.

I missed my old laugh. Witty comebacks and meaningless conversation over tea time. You were supposed to count your years with friends and I’m afraid that I am forever young.

Immortality is not very interesting when you’re oblivion.

It would be nice to talk to someone familiar but I am somehow in a foreign land with burnt up drawbridges and mountains of ashes. All my flowers were gone. I am my own island and I grew to accept that. I tell myself even nothing is a gift. I hope that I would become calmer but it seemed that no man could live alone. I’m no Wilde. The only wild thing about me is just my heart. My body couldn’t take extreme weather, nor miscalculated words. I cry harder when hit by a stray word than a stray bullet.

Words, the only company I have.

The words affected me in strange way only words could do. Pull me and push me. Throw me and kick me. Good ones made me fight gravity and bad ones made me justify stabbing right in the biggest artery.

Writhing people like battered snakes. Drowning faces in the lake.

I dreamed of those faces. Sometimes I think that only death could cure this hatred. Their words injured me. It’s their fault. They made me drown. I am the fish in the palm of their cold hands. Squeezing the little beat that I have in my throat. I can hear them laughing. Evil cunts. They deserve a strike of lighting or two.

Funny. 10 years ago I would not dream of their last breath to be hazardous. I would probably cry if it happens.

But hate won’t fix anything. I try to forgive but I am not the forgiving kind. While ignorance is an option, it is not a bliss. Forgetting is. I am still learning to sail this sea. I should maintain a good ship. The salty water can’t get to me unless I leak.

As for now, I bleed stardust and ink.

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