The Ghost behind the lines.

Write, please write.

I live through your words. And there has been a lack of them for a little while.
I am jailed by the drought of your thoughts. I’m in a small cell, as small as the writing you’ve barely done lately. I’m behind bars, made of past tenses and simple words, while I got used to courtyards as vast as your metaphors.

Write, because there are no more pages where I could wander.

You left me, with your book, on the shelf. You’ve let me down as much as you did to him, for I am stuck between the few paragraphs you wrote last time.
Last time, was about eight months ago.

Now, you’re thinking about how you can make it up to me.

Just write, for God’s sake!

Describe what you once described best. Cities where I can roam, skies that I can gaze at, characters that I can fall in love with or be entertained by.

Put your thoughts into paper, because I’m desperately in need of that.
I got used to oceans of your ink, of your thoughts. Now, I only get to swim in an unsatisfying puddle. You left me, in the middle of a story that hadn’t even been read yet. You got me stuck, in a frame that I’ve been discovering, over and over.

I was once free, floating in this immense word. But, then, I had to become a bit too fond of your Art.
Now, your Art is my floor and ceiling, my borders and corners.

You’re the Writer. So it’s your Curse. You get to choose whether it’s a delight or a struggle.
And I guess you know where I am.
You know that page 167 is where you left me. You know how overwhelmed I was by the beauty of your words, and it’s in that very moment that you chose to leave me, in the middle of nowhere.

You put your pen down, you didn’t even bother ending your sentence. You promised me hundreds of pages, made of love and magic, of breathtaking stories…

In the end, you are no Writer. Writers have hearts, and you clearly don’t. You are an artist, because you know how to make magic leak from your ink. But your magic is lacking a soul, lifeless. It nourishes from hurtings like mine, to sate your ego, to keep your ‘Art’ going.

I hate you, as much as I love your words. I also hate how easily I fell for the beauty your pen breathed. You got me hooked, of course, and I’m having quite a struggle to let go of everything you made me feel.

You’re an artist in the way you fooled me. You’re an artist in the way your words help you reach your ends.
And by this Art, I’ll forever be wounded.

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