his star

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨

Twenty-six letters are enough to form every word someone wishes to say. They are enough to write a whole novel with more than a thousand pages, every piece of paper including the same twenty-six letters only in a different order. You don't need much to say what you want to say, to express what you are thinking because you don't have much to choose from. Do you want the letter A to be at the beginning of a word or at the end? Or maybe you don't want to include it at all, that's up to you, but everything is about letters you can put in a different order.

The alphabet has twenty-six letters, but still, it's like mine has none.

My alphabet has no A,B,C or whatever comes after that, my alphabet is empty, giving me no chance of writing down what I'm thinking.

I know that even mine has twenty-six alphabetic characters, that even mine would let me express everything I desire, but something is blocking me from doing so.

A book is lying in front of me, hands cupping the mug filled with black coffee and eyes staring down at the parchment, but not focussing on anything.

Nothing is happening, nothing is making progress even though everything is happening, everything wanting to break out of my head.

But nothing happens.

I feel my brain working, feel all the thoughts running around in my head and I know what they are saying, know what they are screaming at me, but as soon as I want to take hold of my quill in order to write them down, a blockade is building itself up, preventing me from forming a correct sentence.

In my mind everything makes sense, but it's like the outside world doesn't want to know any of it.

How is it possible that I can think clearly but not being able to write down what is occurring my mind?

The one time I decide to flip open my notebook, decide to let the quill work for me because my brain gets so heavy that I need to empty it somehow, I don't manage to do anything.

I couldn't even say what is burdening me because there is so many that it would be easier to say what is not. It would be less hard to say all the things that don't stress me out because there simply are not that many.

My whole life is a burden I have to live with everyday and I can't even do anything wise against it. I can't shake it off, can't forget about everything, can't start a new life in which I will be happier.

I want to, but it's not as simple as it sounds in my imagination.

Maybe life gives you what you deserve.

Maybe life gives you what you need in order to realise that something is wrong and that you should change it in order to make it better, to make it worth living.

Maybe life lets you decide what you want to do with it and only people who really want to change something are able to do so. People who want to improve, do. People who do nothing, worsen.

It makes sense if one thinks about it, but still I wouldn't say it out loud to somebody else in fear of getting looked at as if I were insane.

I lift the mug closer to my face, slowly blowing against the black liquid in order to let the steam greet my nose, wakening me up only by smelling it before my tongue comes in touch with it.

Burning the inside of my mouth slightly, I take another sip, wanting to experience it once again before I stop moving when I hear voices come closer, voices who are on their way to enter the empty Great Hall.

I put down the hot mug, eyes watching the door in hope of seeing the people who belong to the voices I recognise so well.

One of them is laughing and talking, the other one smiling and listening, but it's not a real smile.