MN
I've got to find that muse beyond the block that has caused my weak pen to dry up, what? It's been over 8-9 days since I wrote a piece last and it's beginning to be worry to my sub - conscious senses as they want to know why I would 'choose' to do that to myself after what we've been through.
RR
Today I found myself in the core of my little wonder nature, the pine forest. Reading would be nice there I thought to myself and not until I was 8 (eight) pages gone did I realise I was already asleep and didn't know what happened in the last page. I got up and decided I'll take a walk to where I had once written 'alone in the playground' only this time I was a lone while they were two pairs or what we call couples, trying to find love in the nature surrounding them but between their words, lips and hearts (that is if they ever feel what I'm assuming).
MA
Only I could find solitude with myself, love with my thoughts, repeatedly I played the poem "Too" by Sage Hasson. I began talking to my twin (my shadow, my conscience, myself, I) inform of an intervention, Love matters, Writer's block, the tragedy of school in relation to the country I was born, I spoke about the unforseen greatness as it oozed out my confident heart. I was unrepairable, scattered, troubled, perturbed, I wanted to reap what I was still sowing- the future 37 times, 37 times, 37 times. I was the only one talking and listening and then one couple stood and left me thinking I am just a troubled, lone bloke.
WB
I couldn't tell how I did the same thing for over two hours and found the painful exit of my subconscious conflict. Realising my trouble in vain I stopped, Nauseating feelings flowing through my head, I kept saying it too, I wanted to write too, I was like some of you too, fading in fantasy too, I was alone too.
I'm back home and I've got good stories to fix too. Inclined words, plane papers, hardened emotions, one time I was a reader, now I too can be a writer.
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