Burnt Pages

The flicker of light enchanted the gloomy window from all day it has been abandoned. The maker was out all day, by that, just out there in the living room, distracting themselves from things that you just can't say as such.

The chair scraped on the wooden floor as it moves, it's soothing with a hint of annoyance as it moves again. A plop as the maker settles down, faces the wooden chart, with fragments of brown pages, and sighs.

The angst of days, of having nothing to think about yet so much- to think about. You can't blame them, if you've known them, that's just how they are, always. Quite sad.

The lamp lights up, the window glows, the shadows reflects from a point outside, out where anyone can see.

Have you ever thought of something yet you can't grasp it? Yet, you have to, and now years later, still trying to remember the same pages you were on that day, years ago.

I honestly don't know, have no idea what the- I am doing at this point. Writing for the sake of writing, just word after word, text after text, not aiming for anything but to produce something that would never really be a part of- anything.

What is even going on anymore? Here I am, on my keyboard, writing down what seems to be nonsense of something... I'm trying to do? I'm figuring out, you're watching me, reading me figuring out what I'm trying to figure out. Endless, it seems so endless yet here I am, here you are, here we are.

I guess that means, we're alive?

Guess we'll never know for sure what exactly I'm doing, there are countless possibilities, me just rambling about it. You bored out of your wits as you sip on your favourite coffee mug. I wish I have one, so I could relax too.

Oh...

I guess I did figure it out, I'm trying to... write something, about things that could be anything, for the sake of writing. You can watch me, read me, or not. Or you're rolling your eyes from what you're seeing here, cuz I am too.

I'm writing- so redundant.

Let me try to think again, on what I should think about when I'm writing about writing, because what else should I be doing? Every finger, every pencil, pen on a paper, every thought counts as if it's natural, which it should be, when it comes to anything, especially when you're creating somehing. Because you are creating something and that's awesome!!

Honestly, just write something with me, write what you're thinking right now, about how you should- what you want, I guess. Well, if you only want to. No pressure.

You're still here huh.

Well, how are you? Did you do something fun today? Were you down? How are you holding up? I'm a mix of all that, I'm coping and feel numb.

Enough about me, let's just think about things to distract those thoughts unless, of course, you're like me, out here like your extrovertedness got out of the bag for the time I've created this.

I should stop writing, but if I do, what else should I do? I've stopped writing 2 years ago, so here I am, recreating the feeling of writing. The zone, it's there but not really. Every time I try to grasp it, some thoughts fill my head up with air, shooting blanks and covering my head with nothingness.

If I could, I'd have a pile of burning pages.

The growl of fire burns as another page gets dumped, glows up into fine pieces as they fall limp into an abyss.

It's beautiful, the fire. Not quite when you think about the decaying trees, suffering from the dilemma of being used yet thrown away.

My maker could hear the screams and they could also see them. It's in there beside them, yet they cannot touch, only move on the will of the souls. The trees tell them to write, they control the pages, if they don't like it, they create more of them by burning more of themselves to torture my maker. They control what should be written because of course, they are the stories upon their corpses.