yep, it think it is ok to write to Your Self
There is a moment. Well, it's usually more like a collection of them. A collection of a recollection of emptiness.
Staring at the blinking cursor, typing, retyping, deleting and retyping and finally the moment.
A blank page. Back to square one.
There is something hypnotic about it. The blinking cursor.
At times even haunting.
It's hilarious how watching a few pixels on a screen that switches between black and white can make me go down memory lane more than any other sight. Truly fascinating.
It makes me question, am I empty or am I overflowing?
To whom do I write? To myself? If not, then who is it that I write these words for? Who else other than me, the author, understands the nuances and the intended thought?
But then again isn't the author dead?
The heartbeats of the writer ends like the blinking cursor once the work is done. It's soul can only watch in silence as the readers attempt to interpret it.
Maybe when I ,the author, myself becomes the reader, perhaps I can finally move on from this as I turn the page.
But until then I sit in silence. Watching. Waiting. For the cursor to vanish.
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This is an excerpt from my diary that I wrote during the 2020 pandemic.
yep, it think it is ok to write to Your Self