It came and it went.
It did not appear as a dream.
It did appear even as a mere thought.

My pen arouse from its slumber.
It roared as it reached the pages,
Not due to any approaching prey,
Not due to fear.
You see,
these words never took much effort.
In fact,
I could sit and dwell and the words would come as if God himself was whispering in my ear.
Perhaps,
Perhaps, I’ve drowned myself in pages.
Pages and pages of another’s work.
Once I’ve reached their last pages,
I cannot form a concept of what is true reality.
I feel lost.
I yearn so badly to be her.
To be in that love.
To be in that fight.
Perhaps I yearned so badly it was involuntary that the pen was awoken.
I awoke the pen.
And I will write once more.
She is back.
And I will write this **** book.