Today, I cannot write. Today, I’m afraid I’ll fail my beloved pen, my beloved book of poetry. Though I do try. To wander into the dark corner of solidarity and drown in my secrets. And personify them into living words.. I have words, but they are all corpses…stabbed to death by the grim knife of “routine”..
I sit on my table, with the tip of pen pressed firmly against the blank fibrous sheet, somewhere in the middle of the fragrant bundle of sheets, covered in soft leather – another symbol of the vicious world I was telling you about…
I sit there, I try to think, I stare at a blank point in air, somewhere between the blank sheet and me…I try to feel, I try to reach my inner self… But all of that comes to one word. One word that I bring to life today…Futility.
After hours of futile self-exploration, I close my precious blank treasure sheet of poetry, with one little jewel inscribed in it, A Dot.
The single dot from the ink in my pen will remind it of the day when his friend failed him, the day when this very sheet envied the countless other sheets that were all drowned in countless words of tears and smiles, and dreams and failures, of rain and clouds, and sun and Icarus.
‘Today’ will be remembered in deep agony, ‘Today’ will not be forgotten. And maybe someday, that blank sheet, doomed by a little dot of futility for life, will evolve to become a philosopher, a poet, just like the one who decided its fate, just like, Me.