__________________________
Am I going to be one of those totally secluded writers? That girl who locks herself in her small apartment?
My shelves are filled with notebooks, my floors are covered in papers. They're all mine. And they're beautiful. They're filled with a soul no one could fathom.
It's as though I have cut a hole in my heart and bled onto the pages.
Then the words form. Perfect words which capture, perfectly, my state of mind and my state of heart.
Everything I've ever felt is on these pages. These pages that don't leave the notebooks or the floors.
That way it's safe.
That way my heart is safe, and my memories are safe.
Afterall, these feelings go down to the core of who I am.
These pages
Do
Not
Leave.
These writings are
so
personal.
If I ever forget a feeling,
If I ever feel something I dont want to feel anymore,
If ever my nostalgia slips me into a comatose of lost memories,
all I have to is open up one of these beautifully secret notebooks of mine, and out of it comes my soul once again.
So, amen. Do not enter. I bury myself with my talents.
My lonely self.
I do long to invite anyone who wants to enter, but these notebooks, and these pages..
they're so fragile. They're the remainders of my heart, and they feel.
Fragile.
And, flammable, actually. One spark and I'm done for.
My entire soul goes up into flames and only remains in black ash that gets blown away by even the most subtle breeze.
So, no. No. No.
I cannot take those chances. Here is my soul. Embedded in these pages, and there my soul will stay.
Alone.
Enclosed.
And only for my own eyes. For my eyes bring tears, not flames.
With my eyes I fear no fire.
My tears will put the flames of a fire out and I can take comfort in being drenched in sadness forever, alone.
