-dear diary

I regret. I regret I hadn't kept a diary in all that time I was hurting. A day-to-day journal of my brokenness, of my pain, of my agony, my distress. Poems. I had disregarded my Number 1 passion. My words did not proliferate, instead I just soaked my bed with tears and praying so hard it would go away. How could I have been so careless? All those times I could have made art, poetry, books, all wasted in a single act of, Go away. I don't want to talk to anybody. No, many single acts.

And if, if there is a grander event, a bigger event than that, that would ask for my tears, for my body to stay in bed all day, for my mind to be lonely again, I would do so, in a flight of passion. Hurriedly. I would scurry to this grander event, happily shed my tears and write about it. Hell, how have I not known about this before? For if there is a passion that I would not happily enslave for, in a glance, in a thought, in a second, it would be writing

Now I had forgotten. I forgot to be angry, to be hurt. My heart does not bleed anymore, but also my ink. My ink refuses to bleed, the way it so automatically used to before. Nothing. My heart is happy, but not my pen. I would wave it, shake it, throw it, but it would not wield its literary magic it once used to bestow...