Interrupted


Its been hours now, I am still holding the pen, facing the white A4 sheet, racking my brain to look for the exact words that will help explain to you what is happening to me.

Its only been hours and yet I feel its been ages since I came and sat at the table and uncapped my pen, which is now dripping ink, inpatient of my hesitation.

Staring right at me, on the table, are the three diaries I onc e used to write in. All the pages are almost filled in. And now I cannot open them. Strange.

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