It rained the whole day, from when I first awoke to when I felt the need to sleep. It rained and I was left in misery. And now, when the rain no longer pours, when everything is silent and the grass fresh and green and rejuvenated, when the sky no longer cries, I know not of what I intend to say. Maybe my only intention is to fill this empty page and in it find some sort of comfort. Maybe my intention is to fill the emptiness inside of me, the longing of what, I do not know.
I have no desire at the moment, but to fill time with something. It is not to remedy a pain, for pain has no remedy when you do not know its source. Nor is it to feel better, for I am not finding any of these words a source for my betterment.
God, for I think there is one, I cannot speak and am useless without words. Why not let me speak and write tonight? Why, when it is all that I know how to do, when you know it is the only thing that saves me from eternal pain and anguish?
Life is a brute, swallowing me like a hungry snake, tormenting my soul, killing my pen. Oh the pen! Without it I am none, nameless…Not even air!
And you my dear reader, I know what you must think. That I am selfish, writing in first person day and night, whining and letting the brute devour me. In that you are right. I am selfish, most certainly.
But let me be, for I have not yet learned.