I will not write again about the things that occupy my mind and give me the capacity to feel varied emotions.

I will not write about the sunrise; about its hues which paint the early morning sky, about its light that cracks through the horizon and set aside the night; about how my heart leaps up from a slumber of pleasant dream or thrilling nightmare. Nor will I write again about the sunset or even just use the flaunting adjectives to describe its beauty for I know that despite its magnificence it is the most beautiful goodbye I can ever witness. Of course, I will not let my notebook to be filled with their alluring sorrow again.

I will not write about the flowers that blossom under the sun- how their petals gloriously bask in the sun’s warmth, how their fragrance gives joy to the human mind, how their beauty can bewitch the human eyes, how their presence in a garden exudes appealing scents. These flowers are epitome of deception and I will never let my pen be fooled by them again.

I will not write about wind that rustles through my window and embrace me with its enchanting arms nor will I let my guard down when its breeze demands for solitude. And about the rain that drizzles and showers, I will never write about how it makes me long for someone to cover me with a yellow umbrella when it pours and I am alone walking through it.

I will not write again about the moon when it is surrounded with stars or when the sky is empty and it’s the only object you can see in the heaven. I will not write again about how the moon misses the sun, how cruel the destiny is when they are on the same sky but cannot even glimpse at each other for they are being held captive in different time capsules. Never again will I scribble their longing in my notebook.

I will not write again about the music that captures my heart. I will not write about its melody nor its lyrics that enchants me to sleep. I will not write about the piano, of how it makes me nostalgic and how its keys create melancholy tunes. I will not ever compose a word about the sonatas asking for remembrance and reminiscence. I will now let my pen forget about them.

I will not write again about the poems and books I have read or the movies I have watched. I will not write about how these things become a jocund company in my solitary hours. I will not write about how they mirror life in different angles, in different point of view, in different colors. I will not write again about how the writers and the poets can move the heart of the people even with just a single line or sentence. While I am still on my senses, I will not write how they compel me to be like them again.

I will not write again about the letters that swirl inside my mind, nor create stanzas or sentences that reflects my heart on a certain thing. I will not write again about their fantasies and the journey they take in the imagination. These letters will now rest their heads and must only be found in the alphabet vowing never to form connections with each other again to avoid pain from expectations.

I will not write again about the stories that cannot find its ending nor the stories that don’t even started yet but already ended. I will not write about how these tales unfold the plot of life that lead the characters to their dreams and when the circumstances are unbearable, that lead to their demise. The world should not know about these narratives for the people will only have broken hearts after submitting their minds to read those stories. I will never write about them again.

I will not write again about you. I will not write about how we met, how we became friends, and in the end became strangers. I will not write again about the words you said that made me smile, about the songs you let me listened to, about the poems and stories we read, about the time we talked about silly things, and about the days gone by. I will not write about them for they are affectedly refined no words can ever recount them. I will not let my pen touch them again. They will forever stay in the cupboard of memories.

I will not write again about you; you, who hold my heart in an uncanny and clandestine way. I will not write about how our paths crossed, how I left you, and how you find me in that road again. I will not write about how I long to cross the distance- to stretch out my hand and touch the warmth of your skin; how I want to be close to you because this virtual universe we are in only makes us parallel. I will not write again about how the gravity pulls me towards you but cannot quite reach your ground. I will not write again about the wall that divides us- the static signal and the murmuring protest of its wires. I will not write about how I became a celestial body caught in your orbit and how I wish I am the satellite you see from where you are standing. Yes, I will not write about all these things again because they only make me yearn for the unseen future.

With all the words left untold, with all the conviction left in me; I will not write again.