29/05/2024
Pen scratching on paper, the only sound breaking the silence. This, writing, this is where I find my solace. Some might look at these words and wonder who crafted them, if it's all just a play with borrowed phrases. The answer? Yes, these are my words, maybe polished a bit to make them shine, but a hundred percent mine. The poems that spill onto the page, the stories that bloom, these are all born from within. It's a dance, sometimes the thoughts flow freely, a torrent of emotions, other times they trickle out, slow and deliberate.
There used to be a book, a collection of poems and prose penned during a different time. Words birthed from the pain of a broken marriage, a wife who strayed. They weren't my fault, those feelings for "greener pastures." That book, it was my sanctuary. It held my pain, my anger, my healing, all within its worn cover. The tiny apartment, thrown into by the storm, became my haven, a place I cherished and cared for. And that book, it was a part of that haven, a silent witness to my journey.
But somewhere along the line, it vanished. Lost in the shuffle of life, a memory that lingers like the scent of a faded perfume. It stings, the absence of that tangible piece of my past. Yet, the words themselves, they live on - etched in the corners of my mind, whispering their stories when I close my eyes. And so, I write again, creating new chapters, new solace on these blank pages, hoping they won't be lost to the wind.