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I sometimes got lost for words. Like a tree losing its leaves, I couldn't seem to bring it back eventually. Perhaps it is because of what has been happening in the game called life that causes me to lose my ability to stand up and speak. Becoming a writer means becoming expert in words they say. If it was true, then maybe I am not a writer at all; for I have been struggling to tell you my blues. How could someone be a writer when she could not tell an exact metaphors to describe her feelings? How can I be a writer if my pen had stopped working already? How can I be a poet when my voice had lost its tune?
"But, you are still good with words."
And honestly, that hits me. Am I really good at words? or am I just adjusting my emotions to speak such affirmations? Confused between the two contrast thing; Am I a writer? Or I just know how to put words in every crumpled paper I see? Perhaps before— I was. When life was still like a whole damn playground I can have fun; when the world still was revolving— not repeatedly. Maybe I was a writer; who could twist every word and put different meanings to it that not even dictionaries could define.
But as the day swiftly passes by, I have lost every languages I used to speak. Not even a single word came back to my book of poetries. Where could've they been? All I know is I was voyaging towards a dark blue sea in the middle of a raging storm; and before my toes could reach the sand of a calm sunny island, the ability that my hands and mouth used to possessed was left in the boat I stayed in.
Perhaps I, indeed was a writer, that got stuck in a bitter past that causes her to lost her ability to find words to define things; for world stole her courage to bring her words in the present— for this world have told her she was never meant to be a writer.
YOU ARE READING
Unspoken words in proses.
Non-FictionWelcome to Cm_rhii's own world of unspoken words compiled in proses. In this book, you will read the writer's unsaid emotions as she writes about the things she experienced.
