I’ve wanted to write for some time, but my hand forgets the fluid motions to tremors once I start. What once was second nature has turned labored and illegible- deteriorating. And I find I can no longer phrase together you and I.
The page is littered with edits and errors; lines crossing out the words I cannot formulate. And while my intentions were to bear my soul, we somehow got lost in translation. You couldn’t read the jumbled script, and countless annotations. And I couldn’t stop the meticulous editing, trying to write back the pages to before.
The words got lost.
The page was torn.
We became so entranced in reality we stopped enjoying the story.
Ourselves personifying the cliché Shakespeare created –destined to be star-crossed lovers. The downfall of one another. The story keeps writing itself, and I find myself unable to stop the plot from spilling out without my consent.
How are you my dear?
It seems so long since you last wrote, and I find am not the same as I was when we said goodbye. My spine is wearing, and I wonder what it is you read when you look into my eyes. Or if you can read anything at all.
How cohesively we were strewed together, till Briony came knocking.
Is this writers block? Or has the story somehow changed mid-sentence?
Two roads diverged, and I, I’ve wanted to write for some time, but when I put the pen to paper, the sword is far mightier. And I cannot muster the strength to fight back. So I leave the words unwritt…