Writing. what it means. what it meant. and what of it.
writing, to me, is just thinking out loud, lyk speaking, but in form of words, laid down bit by bit, in detail, and in perspective
writing, what it used to be for me, was something that i really enjoy, something that i took pride in, something that made me high in imagination, something that meant the world to me, but has now become such a forgotten language, that i, could not feel any intimate connection with, anymore..
so let me write something now, as to check if i still have the itch, the ink for the pen i've long since put away..
there was a boy, filled with dreams, n hopes, the ambitions he sought, fueled with intense motivation, grew ever so bright, n clear as a glowing gem..
but the gem was broken, into tiny pieces of dust, clotting in a sea of red, blood filled horizon, eerie and dark, and the boy drowned in his own nightmare..
the boy woke up, only to realize, the hopes and dreams he had, was all but a farce put up by what people think he should be.. of what future he should lead..
he followed the path, chained to these directions of where he should go, even with the freedom to choose, the road does not give him the liberty of choice, as he was denied the knowledge, of carving his own destiny..
and so he strayed, into what the void offers, a space of thorns, a place of mourns, with only flickering lights hinting his next destination, and so he drifted along the mold..
*sigh* and that was all that came up..what ever happens to that boy? well that'll have to wait for another time..