Crashing.

"The road to creativity passes so close to the madhouse and often detours and ends there."

- Ernest Becker.

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There was once a story

meant to be written

but not to be read

afterwards.

It was that intense moment of realisation,

that one did not need to be a genuis to understand

anything single thing,

or anything at all.

It was right there all along

before it was made to be complicated.

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There was once a story

about a person screaming for help.

When there was no need for that,

no need for that story.

It was so intense,

that the fixation of writing the story

was so captivating

and the words meant so much.

It was at that point in time,

where everything made sense

and everything felt like a standstill,

too good to be true.

It was right there all along,

a part of the mind

that the mind itself

did not want to accept.

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There was once a story

that was a trap.

For there was no ending

to the story.

It was too intense,

it was to be written every day,

with the mind,

or not to be written at all.

It was meant to be kept right there

as a reminder

of what it was like to feel so lost

and alone.

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There was once a story

that was a lesson learnt.

A story that surprising held so many morals,

so many lessons.

It was so intense,

that it couldn't have gone any better.

While there were no regrets,

and there were no parts to return to.

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Some things are better left behind.

Not to revisited,

not to be reread,

not to be thought about.

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M.

Hit a wall.

Right now I need a miracle.