Never Will

There’s nothing for me to write about. That’s what I believed for a while. There’s nothing for me to write about.
Nothing but creations from the blisters of my brain. Creations that are anything but real. Simple ideas projecting a world of sparks. Ideas that stalk me during the day, walk behind me at work, whisper in my ears on my way home, chase me in my dreams, catch me off guard in my daydreams and beg me to be birthed into life.
When alone, I distract myself with hopes and dreams. I wander off with my day work and my weekend plans just to avoid them.
Yet I close my eyes and find them there. Waiting. Frustratingly hoping that I would jot them down, speak them up, or scream them to life. They wait, hung by a single thread. They chase me like an invisible phantom, but their power is enough to make me feel their existence. They whisper loud enough to a deafening point but I manage to absorb the sounds as random screeches of a metal door.
They exist in me. They live and relive through me. They tremble with my fear. They scream with my agony. They create a world I fear sinking in. A world I cherish to a petrifying point.
I stare at them from a distance and rustle with my real world. They stare back at me but say no word. Their quest has been a long journey in my realm. They know I know.
I close my eyes and follow the sound of chatters of people around me, of traffic horns, of the music in my ears and let them go.
Disappear.
Vanish for the given day.
It is somehow frustrating to have them go. Disappointing to a certain point.
I walk out to life, knowing that they’ll always be there waiting for me to finally have the courage to act. To write them. To read them. To simply give birth to them on a blank sheet of paper.
I might constantly disappoint them.
But they never will.
