i am not a writer

it’s been nine years since I started writing-writing, creativity spilling onto blank pages, lines and rows and sheets of blue ink the proudest achievement of my life. the joys of holding well-worn, crumpled papers were but a childhood novelty, and faded along with the rest of my childhood. i didn’t write afterwards. it’s been four years since i rediscovered writing; this time, i started typing-writing, my feelings spilling into pixels on a screen. jagged lines of black text became my new aesthetic. i fell in love with how i could make something out of nothing. how broken sentences could read so beautifully fluid. how my broken heart mended with the more sentences i broke. i naively thought, i can write. it’s been six months since i realised i can’t write anymore. words were the stars in the sky when my world was dark and when i fell in love again the streaming sunshine broke both the night and my writing. and so my broken heart healed and as i said goodbye to the hurt and longing i also waved my words away. i now think in feelings and colours and the symbol-numbers of science but not in words. i can’t speak coherently and i bite back all the different forms of words i want to use to express the same idea and i struggle to form a simple sentence. i can’t write anymore, but i’m sure i will find the words again, the precious gems tucked away in the dark corners of this new sunlit world.

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❄︎ chloe ❄︎

write before you forget

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