Non-fiction

the writer’s allibi

It wasn’t me, I was with a book, exchanging ideas, alone. So no one knows and the book cannot speak for me.

I was lost in thought, dreaming of flying away. How wonderful I’d feel, soaring over vast waters and icy hilltops. Imagining my feet swim through air. I thought, dreaming of flying, till this day.

My pen? I almost lost my pen, between drafts on endless paper, I almost lost her. I wrote and tore, wrote feelings from my hearts’ core. Wrote till my fingers were sore and I saw them bruised. I realized how I used so much time trying to let you know that it wasn’t me who wrote the suicide note.

Posted by P.A.W. from WordPress for BlackBerry.

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