• thesoulinblack 23w


    I hate the times when I don't feel like writing,
    It's like my pen has lost it's ink,
    It's like my thoughts have lost words,
    It's crazy when my insides are constantly being torned off and all I am really searching for is an escape instead of a shelter,
    It's like I would burn out and fade away in this chaotic consistency of my thoughts and my realities,
    It's like my fantasies are weaving itself into a structure, to be a part of this story
    They are creating bridges,
    They are navigating the characters,
    To fill in the spaces of this temporary echo which is forever gonna cease in the edges of this never ending moment,
    That can be visited as frequently as one wishes to,
    They are constantly juggling between the masks,
    They are hiding behind these curtains to play the game of a lifetime with these rolling dices and overlapping sidelines,
    They are spies and they tend to look into the diary of our lives to steal some of our pages and burn out the rest of the others,
    They are the writers, the one who intend to plant a seed of mystery in our minds,
    The mystery that's never gonna unfold, the mystery that's always gonna roll down our lives following the one uncertain lie,
    As it's not something that you could have a hold on, it's something that you inhale each time you choose to breathe among these bushes and thorns.