When I was eleven, I knew what I was going to do and how I was going to get there.
I wrote because the world looked better through my eyes.
I wrote because I had seen all the magnificence and all the flaws in a faultless way.
And I published all the pain and the change and the anonymous I had endured; I could compose a verse.
And then I died.
I like to think of my death as an audacious affair; I was known for my statements.
I probably went down in a fight, dying as I lived, on my own terms.
I went young too, I was around thirteen.
And my last piece was about a love lost, and I think everything after that is what killed me.
Or maybe I just drowned in my own sorrow.
Nowadays I’ve been living the past years as a ghost, not really sure why I’m writing or what I’m trying to find. The writer’s block serves as a barricade, preventing me to travel on to the next plane and everything that is left to see is mostly a blur, the same sob story with different characters.
I can no longer compose a note, the symphonies I wrote before are now just a legacy.
A monotonous piano narrates my story in the same melody but it is not the sound of joy that it once was a long time ago.
And I sit there, and I wonder if I can ever rest peacefully or if I will ever find my muse again, if I can ever see the world as I did before.
The writer’s block eats me up and spits me out every time I try and I know this because the flashing cursor is haunting me.
So I give up,
And that’s what I’m known for.
this is the first I’ve written in over two years, and it is far from beautiful.