While we were all together, not to reminisce but to reflect on the memories that shaped who I am today, I had a lot of stories that I wrote - tedious and not easily comprehensible. If anyone were to read them, they would flip the pages yet fail to focus on the words. I didn't know why I wrote them, perhaps to distract myself from the loneliness that lurked deep down in my veins or to ease the burden that weighed heavily on my chest. I transformed my pain into an art that no one seemed to show interest in, even if I was in the mood to write.
All those unfinished stories that I wrote during times of solitude were expunged by me, without realizing that they were there when I needed anything. They were unfinished because there were moments when my sense of loneliness was filled with all of you. The stories I was reading were about each and every one of you, and you were the stories worth reading and watching.
I expunged the unfinished stories because I believed that you filled me, and I wouldn't be needing them. After all, they were all ponderous. Little did I know that I was expunging what was most significant to me.
YOU ARE READING
From The Pages of My Soul
PoetryA second book of elevated railway of my emotions. Episodes I never knew I could write. Series I was afraid to dive in with words. This is a collection of poetry and prose originally written by my heart.
