(Jimin POV)
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Fog filled my head, my mind and body separate, as if reality was blurred in a photograph, and my keyboard was a desperate lover waiting to be touched and stroked.
The screen held sentences translating into nothing, words of fiction no longer appearing desirable.
I couldn't feel anything towards my words.
And it scared me, because they were all I had.
I went back to my previous works, clicking away at chapters and desperately reading.
I didn't recognize them.
These words, once made from glitter and gold, did not seem familiar anymore. As if they were someone else's and I was amazed at how someone could write such raw beauty.
Like the detachment I felt from myself, I truly became the third person, that point of view now the scope of my consciousness.
But I couldn't feel anything either --- I felt numb.
Perhaps these words once were born from the emotions I tried so hard to understand and suppress. To make sense of what each increment of emotion meant.
To define.
But in the hopes of using only my head, I became numb in my chest.
I leaned back into my chair, my head up held from the wood and I stared at the patterns in my ceiling. The clock ticked, tocked, ticked --- a symphony of harsh mockery.
If I was running out of words, did that mean I no longer had a mind that was beautiful?
If my words no longer felt beautiful,
no longer felt definite,
was I gone too?
Because I no longer felt sad, no longer cried my eyes out, no longer felt hollowness as an abyss sucking all light from my chest.
I was a shell.
I was aware of slipping into an ocean now, plummeting deeper into the mindset I was forming.
This was evidence, no, my lack of words as proof, it's not true, that I no longer had meaning.
Words defined everything, and if I no longer had them, then I wasn't definite.
I was blurry, a photograph out of focus, the colours dulled and streamed, and I was too numb to repair the camera.
And I wanted to whisper questions to my readers, to the people who read it all,
"am I still beautiful?"
Are my words still beautiful enough to move you as you say they do?
Are my words still recognizable because I can't recognize myself anymore, can't remember being the creator of stories that I once stayed up till 2AM typing.
My cheeks started to burn, heat travelling up my neck, and I paused, awaiting the emotion to come and explode and simmer and leave me into pieces for I'd at least feel something then.
It paused, travelling back down to where it came from, and I shut my laptop.
///
But I feel something when I'm with you.
I feel it all, and if I were to graph this, then you'd see the curves and dips, the linear and exponential functions of how high and low you make me.
I want to curl up beside you and trace stories onto the blades of your shoulder, your bones being the structure of where the climax occurs.
I want to continue describing you, continue writing about you, and pull you into even the worlds in my head, so I can never be without you.
You'll forever be an unfinished manuscript for your entire beauty can never be described.
And I'm not sure whether that scares me, whether you'll leave while I'm in the middle of writing about how your eyelashes feel against mine, and the hopes of a sequel die.
Or perhaps I could publish your beauty to the world, but someone else could take you away from the bookshelves I once placed you on.
I miss you; I mean it when I say it, and I mean all of this when I say it.
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