If there is something that makes me really happy, I write about it. If I think I am in love, I write about it. More so when I am sad. When I am sad, I turn sadness into writing. I don’t think that only because something is sad, it could not be beautiful. I see beauty in pain. I find that there is still pride in getting hurt. Like scars from a war. Because it makes you strong. It makes you brave. Because it’s equal to the times you’ve changed for the better. When I write it almost cures me.
So now perhaps, the worst thing that can happen to me is when I can’t write about what makes me feel dead. It hurts to breathe and live and feel so dead anyway. When life is just something that passes and not something lived, not something that fills the spirit, not something that makes the heart so alive.
When I can’t write. When I can’t separate myself from what I have done and make something out of it. When there is only disgust and not a trace of beauty. When I am so ashamed of it myself. I used to write even of failures, of heartbreaks, of forgiveness and moving on but not this time. The most painful of all unrequited love is when you don’t even love yourself, when you break your own heart and you can’t forgive yourself. This is, by far, just the darkest hour. And I don’t know what to say next.