Saturday, November 24, 2012

Death By Inaction

I saw you again tonight. We shared little more than a few glances, but I mustered the courage to speak to you. This is all I could say:

"Sometimes, I write until my hands hurt."

As your smile dropped and your eyes widened, you responded, "Really?" The tone of your voice was inquisitive and sarcastic. It seemed as if you were asking a question that you knew the answer.

I shook my head in agreement and walked away. I assumed that you understood what I meant, but there is no way of knowing for sure.

Since, I can't tell you how I feel in person, I'll tell you here. My hands cramp from the frantic entries into my journal in the dead of night. They cramp from the pictures I sketch of you, and they ache from writing seemingly inexhaustable poems and letters that you'll never read. Sometimes, I write with such fury and passion that the thick lines of ink become saturated and warm. A mix of sweat and tears smudge the lines, making a beautiful mess of everything. Each stained page is the literal manifestation my torment.

These words will never be spoken to you, but that's what I meant when I said, "Somethimes, I write until my hands hurt."

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