i stopped writing.

not because i don’t want to.

it’s because i couldn’t.

i couldn’t bear the fact that i would have to feel pain and sadness all over again to write something only a few people would understand.

i couldn’t find the exact words. the right sentence. the perfect way to say the emotion i want to show, ending up saying more than the thought itself.

i couldn’t face an empty screen with the line continuously blinking as if begging me to release the letters out of it — teasing it constantly knowing i would just stare at it and close my phone afterwards.

i couldn’t find the right moment to write. and when i thought it was, i just end up thinking about all my “i couldn’t”s never finishing anything i write.

it’s so easy to say, “just write. it’ll come to you soon enough” but little do those people know it’s as hard as it gets.

one day, i write something amazing. amazing to me at least. and the next day, you don’t write anything at all — scared to create a new one that’ll forget the existence of the previous one.

i stopped writing.

but i keep imagining.

writing on my head but never putting them into words. locking them up as safe as possible inside my head where only i could reach. only i could appreciate. only i could admire.

i keep them.

and if one day,

if i get the strength to stop saying “i couldn’t”

i know it’ll all make sense.

but for now,

i’ll have to stop writing.