Towards infinity,
I travel through my writing spree.
In that distant future,
I might cease to be—
I don't know.
What more must I endure?
What does the future have in store for me?
The only phobia people say I have
Is that I might cease to be...
The moment I stop writing!
Writing is my need!
It keeps me alive.
How can I part with it?
Even if death demands it?
I could probably withstand anything.
But not the writer's block within me.
Although through my earlier works
I may survive,
That does not guarantee eternal peace.
Does it?
Who knows what's new in store for me?
The future is unknown.
Uncertain and dark.
Only through my writing
Can I stop it from coming?
Someone can demolish my writing while I'm alive.
But I can reproduce it anytime.
But what about the future?
Our past...