Inks and Pain

Strange

It has become unusually harder for me to create bittersweet stories which evoke a bit of melancholia ever since pain stopped knocking on my heart.

I am questioning myself if I could still feel something, anything—anger, bitterness, frustration, shame, love, sadness—towards some certain people in my life and how important that emotion is in our relationship, but I’m afraid at times I feel empty because there is nothing to feel.

I oppose being empty, my mind resists engaging at the very thought of it, my heart stubbornly refuses to believe it is real, that it could happen, especially to me.

I who have joined the bandwagon of cold people claiming they have empty hearts when they are really just lonely. I who turned sadness into art whenever tears reach the tip of my tongue, or even when tears haven’t come. I who became overly familiarized with pain that I recognize it in other people’s eyes and understand it with my heart. I who thinks of welcoming pain again in my life, just so I could divert my attention in feeling nothing when there could be everything, or even just a thing.

The rain used to make my ink bleed with pain, now I’m asking pain to make my ink bleed when it rains.

Advertisements