Unreality had started to set in for weeks now. And all the while knowing a simple sentence could cure; I ran from the words that I feared to conjure.
Today I thought of the might of the pen. While stronger than the sword, its duty is at its end. Most of my writing is on screens and keyboards. How many generations before its metaphorical might, Is something that new writers lose sight?
These days, I visualize all words written, as reality's stitching. A way to dress the wounds of waiting. A way to hide from a world of my making.