I’ve always felt that my writing turns out the strongest when it’s sad. I guess for that reason, my fingers have stopped creating prose or poetry of any kind for the past few years.
It’s not that there had been no pebbles encountered throughout the not-long-past and still ongoing walk.My feet stumbled upon many pebbles, but there was nothing that a good overnight cry and an emotion-stripping out-in-the-open kind of honest conversation couldn’t fix. Nothing that my fragile heart could not take in, that would’ve otherwise left me with no choice but to pour it out into words.
It’s ironically a good thing, isn’t it?
You thought you’d be hurt even more when you’re finally able to trust the entirety of your heart into someone else’s hands. Yet surprisingly, the hurt only lessened.
If it always goes in this manner, I would keep on trusting and keep on falling without any hesitation. Until it all feels like a loop of never-ending trust falls.
I could only hope that the pair of hands that had never failed to catch me yet so far, would carry on doing so. That the person to whom these two hands belong would stand there long enough to catch me again every single time.
So that when comes the time of my highest trust for the greatest fall, there would be no part of me that wonders in fear: “Would there still be anybody there to not let me be hurt in the fall? Or would my head hit the floor then bleed to death?”
