I left this place of sadness, thinking I could also leave this sorrow behind. I stopped writing about my own darkness, thinking it would evict these demons in my mind.
I thought if I stopped writing about them - then I wouldn’t be writing them into existence.
I thought putting all of this mess in the back of head, would allow itself to untangle and I could erase it from my memory. Instead it continues to grow like a cancer in my brain, except it’s more of a cancer spreading itself slowly around my soul.
I thought leaving my passion of writing behind would lead me to another passion - something that didn’t hurt so much to face. Instead I am numb and cannot recognize the person I’ve become. I am passionless.
I thought by now I’d be happy. In a place where I had imagine myself to be all along. But now the only things that I imagine of is what can come after life and how would it be if I were gone.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I tried not thinking at all. And it’s nice for a while to feel nothing, but after a while, nothing feels more desolate than loneliness.
