“Monolonging” for something more.

Who the fuck am I writing for, anymore?

I used to believe that words could fly through the folds of time.

Connect the dreams of the deceased to the pondering hands of those present.

I used to keep my laptop without a password, so if I were to die, my dreams would flutter beyond my pitiful life.

I imagined them slipping between the fingers of someone who needed to hear them and the agony inside of me would temporarily drift away.

Just how I envisioned my life would end.

Drifting into someplace warm and with fields of swaying green grass.

Now, I am not so sure if there is anything to envision, other than all my pent-up thoughts being choked back inside of me, just like a river of stinging tears.

I find words crumbling inside of my mind.

Breaking off like the crunchy orange rust on an abandoned bike.

They fall away and become one with the wet soil underneath.

Even the ants cannot waste their time to care.

So, why should I?

Who the fuck am I writing for, anymore?

Mentors tell me, I should write, for me.

Care for it, like therapy.

Keep it tender.

Make it raw.

Keep sawing valuable pieces of my soul off and stapling it to paper.

Make it monetizable.

Make it my own.

How much more can I physically take, before writing just feels like a form of exquisitely cruel torture?

I have written what I want for years. Only for others to pity me even more.

Why the fuck, should I write anyway?

Mentors tell me to build a world and fill it people that I know.

Make characters.

Let them grow.

How can I build a world, if the only person screaming inside, is me?

How can I build a novel, if the only story begging to be told, is my own?

Why the fuck, should I write anyway?

My words fall onto a page slowly, as my tears slam into my keyboard faster than my fingers can type.

My desk is a vast ocean.

My mind is an enormous chasm.

Yet, it is only filled with the many versions of me.

The me who needs the world to feel every ounce of anguish that was inflicted on me, through lines of soliloquy.

The me who needs to grow the roots of my tree beyond the expanse of rudimentary creativity.

The me who is still a child, holed up in the musty pantry of my past, waiting for adulthood to shepherd me further from collapse.

Who the fuck am I writing for, anymore?

Is it you, who scoffs at me from a distance, from a place far beyond my reach?

Is it you, who mourns the chastity I never got a chance to wear?

Is it you, who climbs a mountain high dais, eager to beseech?

Is it you, who says they worry, but chooses no weight to bare?

Praise, praise the gods who protect little children.

Praise, praise the gods who rejoice by drinking liquified words from a gilded chalice.

Why the fuck are you listening, anymore?

Would you give me a legacy?

A reason to keep going.

Would you watch me wither away, extend your fingertips as far as they could go, to catch these wandering pieces of me?

So, if I were to die, I could keep on dreaming modest dreams again…

Could you catch those parts of my history, with aching hands, and set them ablaze in the minds of those that needed it most?

Could you start the fire and promise to never snuff it out?

Why the fuck aren’t you pleading, anymore?

Why the fuck aren’t you?

My laptop has a password now. My laptop has a password now.

My laptop is full of those hacked of parts of me.

Only to become a dream, if someone else dreams it too.

It cannot just be me. I also must be you.

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