These Words Are Red.

Words used to simply bloom on your paper. They flowed out like your breath, rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. Your words were meticulous and orderly, and they sang hymns about the trials and simple pleasures of your perfectly ordinary life.

Your words left you in an instant when you stopped breathing steadily, when tortured thoughts pricked at the back of your head, begging you to listen to them. You thought you were strong enough to ignore them. You probably should've stopped thinking altogether.

But life moved on and 'your' became 'her' and she lost those words she used to breathe as simply as air. She would write a word, and then a clause, and then a verse, but it was stuttered and broken and most sadly of all, she wasn't breathing her words anymore, rather just scribbling aimlessly on a piece of paper that would have been more beautiful if it had stayed unblemished by her hand.

She stopped. It was the only thing she could do. She didn't have the drive to keep writing. It couldn't be worth it to spend so much time trying to regrow a love for something she didn't enjoy anymore.

But then a strange thought occurred to her in the strangest of moments. The day was completely ordinary, but a relentless stress seized her heart and the pressure of every single painful thought bubbled inside of her and threatened to explode. There was no way she'd survive it, so she needed to let it all out before it became the death of her.

She only knew one way how.

She reluctantly grabbed an old friend- a tattered notebook now used for numbers and figures and the most horrifyingly objective of matters. She opened it to a blank page, and placed this strange little idea right in the middle, and she told it to run.

The first thing it did was throw away 'she' in favor of 'I,' and it danced on the page in such a different way than I had experienced previously. I wasn't breathing my words anymore, I was living them. My lungs left my words, replaced my by heart and my soul.

And I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote, and my words weren't orderly anymore. My words didn't flow step after step like they used to, they just lived and breathed on their own in the most beautiful chaos I had ever managed to create, and inside of my heart was a tremendous fire fueled by my thoughts, and every word that cascaded out of my chest made the inferno stronger, and I only craved for more.

Maybe my sentences weren't stable anymore, but my words were stronger than they had ever been. And maybe everyone on this earth would think that I was just insane for crying over these words that only I would ever understand, but I didn't care.

I don't care.

My words feel different now, and maybe to everyone else, they'll only feel like helpless blabbering. But I don't care, because to me, they feel like life.

I don't know if I'll ever explain to anyone why I titled those words the way I did. The page glowed with green ink,

But those words were bright red.