It took a fleeting glimpse into my eyes by a passerby, from a million miles away, for me to remember that I used to write.
He spoke of letters lying in a pool of their own shit, holding on to each other for hope. He described how he saw words giving up on their lives, crumbling one by one into an abyss of meaningless strife.
He was unable to focus on the reasons for the decrepit state of affairs, although he mentioned that a wide selection of explanations hung neatly from the rotten rooftops of the restless room. An incessant noise made it impossible for him to stay beyond the eternal second he spent peeking through rusted shields, and right into my soul, but his story shook my heart.
I told him that sketching stories into the sky is a godly talent bastardized by the diarrhetic stunts of fragmented minds. I described how easily erected essays about nothing and everything decorate our worlds with warning signs of the way in which our minds are heading: nowhere; and that amidst these corrupted clouds, I have quietly wrapped myself with a comfortable cocoon of shame and closed all roads leading into my world.
Elsewhere in the world, history forces itself onto helpless hoards of unsung heroes everyday.
Instead of putting words into sentences to disturb the sentences which we are forced to serve, I draw circles around myself and dance to the drunken sounds of greedy waves eating away at our broken shores.