A story, told from the depths of my being.
I had written so much of it.
I’d even signed my name.
I went to select and copy it all, in case I ran into a problem with posting it.
And then I must have hit delete instead
Hours of emotion.
Hours of symbolism in writing. Of alter communications within the prose.
And it’s all gone now.
The memories are still within us.
But will I be able to re-write that with anywhere close to the beauty I had contained in my words previously?
Anger, regret, annoyance…too many emotions. I feel like I’m just going numb.
People over here already didn’t want to share the stories we hold.
Now they’re letting self-depreciation get to them
Letting their depression tell them that their story doesn’t matter
I’ll try again. I’ll even try again right now…
After all, have we tried jumping right back into things when we’ve lost them?
And that has just caused us further issue in the long-term.
Perhaps diving right back into things will allow for something…even if it’s not perfect, something is better than nothing?
A page with words, distorted and scattered though it may be, still provides a story.
A blank page is simply…empty.