So,its not that simple.
Rather its strange.
There is a time when words come out of me,overflowing, sometimes tragic, sometimes full of love and then there is a time when I stay deprived of them,by mind dry as a desert and my feelings, confused and miserable.
I hate it.I hate it when I am not able to write.
I want to throw everything out of my heart on the piece of paper,my blood as ink and my pain as words of tragedy.But when I am blank,not able to surge a single line out of my crumbling body,I feel useless.
I am useless.Rather than knowing how to twist and turn the words,rather than knowing how to create murderers and people in pain,I do not know a single thing.

And no matter how much I am able to write or how much the river of sentences flows in me,I feel them unworthy to be read by others.
My words,they have turned into something I never wanted them to be:
meaningless and useless.

Many things have been taken away from me,many people,many places,and I still survived.

I wonder if I can survive if my ability to write is taken away from me.
I asked myself.
The answer came as a No.

~Sakura Sakka
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