A/N: This is overdue. I have been told that my passion as a writing is useless and that made me do this. Also, I wrote this with the intention to make it as a poem, but since the process was through phone, I didn’t bother breaking the lines... and now that I look at it, I don’t know whether I should label it as a prose poetry or flash fiction. What d’ya think? Gonna label it as poem for now.
Do you remember when they saw us, two kids who liked to spend their time in the bedroom, locked to avoid other people from coming in? They were wrong, though; we didn’t lock the door for fear of others’ judging eyes.
They did not see what we did, so they did not know, just like when darkness revealed nothing to them. We whisperedin a foreign language, one that they saw would always belong to our invaders.They did not know why we went out only to get more papers and pencil leads.
At one point, they concluded we were wasting our time. We did something that did not promise gold and could not be supervised. They didn't see us scratch the pencil, rip the papers, allow our eyes to dress them up with black rings, and blend our blood with ink. Our hearts beat as each letter belongs to its place, the smooth white surface that begged us to taint it.
At one point, the room was too small for us. We made two, one for each other. You kept capturing the small wonders of life through your eyes and immortalized them on soft canvas, while I removed the nightmares of the past and dumped them to the flat desert.
Then, we split. People now recognize you and the golden hands you have. You speak their language and encourage them to improve with your written words. They reach the people's hearts like a baby's cry reaches a mother, and you smile. This is your passion - to be the gentle force that drove others to their better sides.
I live in the past. You don't know, but the room we once had was the chest to my secrets, hidden even from you. I look outside and find horror. The sky is black, the clouds are red, and the river runs brown. The people have horns on their heads and their smiles are their masks. Fear creeps into me like pain of the beating I had when I was young.
The sensation remains, and I write to escape.
Points: 1863
Reviews: 48
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