(In which I realize where I stand.)
As I was browsing my literature book in search for a short story, I found my self stuck on a page marked by a piece of paper. I held it up and stared at the white sheet bearing a penmanship so illegible that only the artist of that crudeness knows how to decipher its visual complexity. I ran my fingers on it and stopped at the colored blotches – dried marks of something once mine and alive.
“How terrible this poem was!” I though to myself. Yet what is more terrible is that it’s all real. It was and it is. How could these unfinished and untitled stanzas speak louder than spoken words? I stared and read for what seemed to be the entire night. I stared and read until I couldn’t bear to stare and read anymore.
Suddenly, I feel a growing feeling inside me and I saw the paper weakly succumbing to the strength of my fingers. The crispness of it seemed to echo through the corners of my room – filling it – filling me. Then there was a sound – a sound so heartbreaking as if it was screaming for mercy. I held the deformed paper tight so as not to let it escape but not so much so I can still hear its plea. I stayed motionless for a while then swung my arms to let it go. It landed into the plastic bin which I’ll get rid of first thing the next morning.
I let it go. And not a tear fell. Neither a sob nor a sigh escaped from my calmly closed lips. Only a loud scream from within.