Summer evenings and writing

I should just write. Maybe the inspiration will flow from my brain like the ink from my pen and maybe the sound of violently pressing the keyboard will bring my heart to a path and back from the distracted zone of nowhere and everywhere. Maybe I should write because I actually do have things to write about, friends and laughter that have passed by, and imaginary people in faraway cultures whose adventures lies at my feet, waiting for my hands and letters. And maybe I should not write. Maybe I should never write again because I never write when I’m happy. Or maybe I should just learn to find another source to creativity, bright days and sunshine instead of bittersweetness and hearts teared apart. And maybe I should write because whatever the answer is, I know that the only way to find it is searching through my thoughts, and the only way to search through my thoughts is falling through them line for line, a never-ending flood of commas and vowels and me.



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