I remember you once blaming me for no longer writing about you.
The truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to write about someone I no longer felt a thing for. There is an essence in my writing and language that comes from beyond my intellectual ability to comprehend and process words – an innate desire to express from the core of my heart. I don’t write for the pure sake of putting words down onto paper (or onto the computer monitor, if you will), I write to feed my soul – the very process of painstakingly regurgitating my guiltiest secret desires and my torrential flooding of sentiments into something physical, something organised and intelligible; something I can be proud to call my own.
I don’t want to throw my words freely into the air, meaningless and cheap nothings that contain no value of truth or sentiment. I hope you understand that for every piece of writing that I used to dedicate to you, I didn’t just give you my words; I gave you in that instant, all of my heart and soul. In that finite amount of time that I wrote, I wanted to give you an infinite amount of reasons to be convinced that you were in every way everything that completed me as a whole.
Therefore, I beg of you – I implore you to not demand me to write about you. I will cease to function properly and my words will never reach you; they will not sound like me and in every single way insincere and likely misconstrued.
Yet, how ironic when I write to implore to not write about you, I am somehow, writing about you?
; 