There are moments of anguish in which you can't promise anything to the one who's upset. Some people shouldn't be allowed to make promises.
I wish my body was made of ink and smell of words... I wish I had no blood but ink in my veins and write as I speak and speak as I write... to be as explicit as possible. So the words get to where they have to and when they have to.
I want to be made of paper to have my body written. But the rain would ruin me and it'd erase my words instead of inspiring me. I want to touch somebody's heart with a word. But I want to know if it happens. It's useless not to know it. Silence is such a strange thing. I complain of other people's silence. But I myself am quiet. For me, silence is like a blank sheet. A blank sheet doesn't make any sounds. And blank sheets are so easy for me. However, on the other side, I don't even have empty sheets. I don't know if I'd rather see an empty sheet or seeing anything. I can't see a thing and this silence made of "not reading anything" is killing me.
They say silence is a blessing, remaining silent at the right time is a virtue. And I, absolutely am worthless, with no blessings or virtues, I get distorted with silence. It burns me and doesn't allow me to get inside of me.
Enough of this silence. Enough of this talking without saying. Enough of these words that can only be grasped on the threshold of consciousness. But in this case, words are lacking. So, desire can't play harmlessly because it went beyond from normal. Is there something normal here?
