A letter; one writer to her muse. From the thingummy I am working on, which may or may not go anywhere.
“The misuse was mine. You made my mind hurt, with either feigned ignorance or its truth; I wasn’t sure what I saw, and ran away because it is what I do best. It pains me to feel insane, but hurt far more to see your aftermath. It has not been a good week.
Or perhaps I am wrong again. Why break the habit of a lifetime? I turn my face away sometimes, because I daren’t believe anything good might actually be happening. As pity-party as that sounds.
I couldn’t make it any clearer, in these haphazard ways. Your doubt is such that it feels as though all my words are worthless, even without the cloak of code; as though I can’t convince you of my sincerity.
I am sorry. And have finally run out of creative words, which is a sad place to be for a writer. This Block seems endless.
Please, come back. No more wicked games. The pupil has not yet learned her lesson. I may seem inconsistent, forever angry, but the latter is born of futility and circumstance.
The former is simply untrue. One sun. The rest are stars only.
I don’t know how to make that clearer, in this echo-chamber of thoughts and misinterpretations.