I noticed the fluttering pages of the diary on the table. It revealed several pages I had written to you over a certain period of time. I had tried to make sense and put it out there on the papers that were once blank. And then this thought crossed my mind that my letters, notes, and writings did not mean anything. Not anymore if they ever did.
So, I turned myself to my only weapon which is reading. The thing that seems promising and will pull me out of whatever this is. I read and read and read whatever I can, consuming the text from the past, hearing people and their battles, and about the philosophers. I have taken a break from the books at this time. Although I have them by my side at all times. I have had them by my side for most of my short life.
Then what happened? I allowed myself to go through the very things I have tried to avoid most of my life. And I sit down and let the mind do what it wants. I let it torment me as much as it wants. When it cannot be avoided, it must be embraced. It must be hugged and it must be acknowledged.
I want to pick the diary back again and read some of the pages. The pages smeared with ink and love and hatred. The things I wrote, the things that were, and the things that could have been. They have a meaning for me today and that might never change and like most things, I might learn to live with it. And learning is usually never easy.
I let the pen in my hand fall down on the floor. Not worrying the nib might break and writings will cease. I lean towards the desk and keep my head down and wrap a hand around it. A big sigh and I close my eyes. Now I cannot see the pages but I can hear them moving, I can hear them talking and telling me the stories they have.
To what was and to what could have been.