the truth is i’m terrified.
when i get sad, i used to write.
my negative emotions converted into ink;
but the past days, i felt like there’s no need.
the truth is i’m terrified.
when i get anxious, i used to write.
jumbled thoughts arranged on paper;
but the past days, i did none whatsoever.
the truth is i’m terrified.
when i feel depressed, i used to write.
haunting notions escape my mind;
but the past days, nothing‘s gone outside.
the truth is i’m terrified.
when i feel happy, i do other things than write.
so i wonder, how long will i be happy?
what if all of this is temporary?
(what if next time i feel otherwise then,
i could no longer write again?)
-fin-
featured image: favim.com
Pessimistic Reveries 