There are words that are chosen to be scribbled down the pages of a journal, there are some that are voiced out until no more tears left to flow down our tired eyes. Until all the knives stabbed in our hearts are withdrawn. But the ones that contain enormous thorns embedded within the most secretive part of us chose to hide beneath our deepest waves.
It's the words I had to absorb over and over again until its water overflows—until it turns into blood that will soon become my pen's ink. This blood knew I had to use them, and every drip over the pages comes the emotions levitating through the eyes of those who will read my silence.
It's the words that my ears intend to connect with my depth after hearing the humdrum songs. Where the sounds of soft pitter-patter of rain are audible and inside those raindrops are the thoughts of people revealing their existential angst. Their reflection in the water would stand beneath my feet as I imagine myself wearing their shoes. I would shed tears in my mind, asking myself why must people hurt in those ways. The tears would refill my ink, and I know I have to free them and let them live between the pages. Not only to sympathize with them, but also to voice out the great affliction I've witnessed through their eyes.
Every words constructed into pieces are mysteries we never knew existed. Every metaphors sprinkled into beatific confetti hides melancholic thoughts we never thought would appear. Every ink contains blood and tears of people crying out for ears not only for them to be heard, but also to be listened. And in every pieces in my journal only not contain silence in me, but also the silence of people I knew I had to write down. Collecting all the scars in this world so each of us would know that we are not alone. Collecting the fallen tears so we would know that it's okay to let the pain out in many different ways.
