It always has me hooked; writing. The sentences, or concatenation of words. This sentence, writing about home; in a black canvas; but i don't feel anything. A doubt sets in. The terrible silence of blank paper, judging the every line i write here; makes me intimidated of its existence. I can see in my mind, i want justification of everything. A perpetual quest, i felt; since i discovered in me. From childhood. It's like there, existing within my existence. I was more used to writing, words; before--now, it's like changing phases; staying with nature--wish i had more time. Or I had more of life, in me---or wish i had the meaning of home;  a search for meaning. Those meanings that i lost, in my own meaningless. Every word betrays my existence.
Home is the silence; like a graveyard of memories--that never existed. Or a perfect illusion. In my mind, i created the delusion of perfect harmony; of home--a dear home. It never existed, or maybe it will exist in these white, horrifying silence of blank paper. In a dismal of time and space. This blank paper, or jumbled up words; is a testimony of home. All the fleeting answers, or the questions i had; are lost. In empty, broken mirror of home. Piercing thunder of these words, dark words--in a hope to feel meaning of home.