This past week, I cannot stop writing. Short notes. A paragraph. Sometimes, it is only 2-3 sentences long. It doesn’t have a title. It doesn’t even finish its own sentences. But one thing for sure, I have so much on my plate, and I feel that I could explode if I didn’t write it down. I know it won’t reach anyone, but these words flow out of nowhere. It swam far enough to reach the surface of my brain and the tip of my fingers.
What is hope anyway, when it keeps being broken?
Why write a thing when it doesn’t ring or rhyme?
I guess I live long enough knowing it is the only thing to do to keep the hope alive.