I have always hated my writing. She said. It was not a pity me moment, but an honest fact that she fought hard to ignore. She was in constant battle with it. It had appeared from nowhere, this hatred. It had proceeded to show and encamp itself in the residence that was her chaotic mind. Trickling down her fingertips, till the only words that she could muster were passionless pieces. There was/is no edginess to it, she says. She likens it more to that blunt knife you hold on to for nostalgia sake, rather than for anything else. The one you get pissed off at, hide in the cupboard, but reach for it unconsciously nonetheless.
In the dark while most of the world slept and the others dwelt in their debauchery, she spent countless hours spilling out the random words that danced about in her mind, sharpening the edges to make them resonate till her body gave out from exhaustion. And as day crept beyond the horizon, she could only balk at the distance that emanates from the words that the night brought. The falsity, she thinks that resided in them.
She had become her own prisoner
She hoped to be free from the torture and mockings that spill from her fingers. She wished to be free from her own self-inflicted torture. She wished to become familiar with her own voice, to be an ally and not an unfamiliar entity from the parchment lacking emotion, passion, excitement. Her heart had grown weary from the growing emptiness that each typed up word in her avenue of solitude brought. She tried to muster the very vibrant colours that entailed the makings of this life, but alas all that she could conjure up was black…endless black