Tale #20: Blood Ink

Often times I stare at other writer's work and was almost mesmerized by it. The words swirl in a circular motion, displaying multiple colors in different hues as they dance in the wind and put up a display in front of my eyes. A show only for me, presenting what the author felt at that moment as they wrote that particular word. Each flip of the paper makes a melody that enters my ears. It was a rhythm, a harmony created by the sliding pen on a paper, the papers creating continues flapping noise as it goes disturb by the wind. The sounds are all different, but still conveys the heartbeat of the writer as they wrote their hearts out. It was nostalgic, until I realized, tears are falling down my cheeks.

All of it were mesmerizing, and painful. Each word was full of emotions that goes right into my heart, each sentences conveys the clearest of feelings, each paragraphs builds a palace left untouched and ignored, each page stained with tears and each time I make a sound by flipping the pages, I could only imagine how the writer tried their best to stifle their sob, not wanting to crumble beneath the great pain they were in. Back then, I could only imagine how they wipe each tear escaping their eyes, not wanting to ruin the manuscript and not wanting to mess up their writing. I could only imagine how they tried their best to move their hands and write despite all the shaking. I could only imagine how hard it is to form words that could express the pain in their broken hearts that is beyond repair.

Back then, I could only imagine.

It was just until now that I realized, how they were able to create such intricate pieces, such magnificent works, and such wonderful art that were able to convey their purest of feelings despite the turmoil they had inside their heads. It was only until now that I was able to realize how each word, sentences and paragraphs had made me shed a tear. How is that possible, that I have never been in their situation, but I can feel what they did as if I were in their shoes? It was only now that I realized it.

'We are the most poetic when we feel the worst pain.'

How did it dawn on me? I am not sure. It was as if, when I was writing this, words were just swirling in my mind and each word were filtered out and it was put in a piece of paper. At first it was just a word, then a sentence, then a paragraph and it continues. Apiece a word is a piece of my heart attached to it, trying its best to stay beating, to stay conscious and not succumb into numbness, and to still feel things even though it hurts so much.

I tried finding logic behind it and yet I cannot go deeper. It hurts so much that if I try to dig further, I might as well break and be thrown into the raging sea, forever lost. The only thing that I know is that, when our heart break, emotions and feelings are set free; free to wreak havoc, to create chaos in our whole being to the point of breakage, and free to express what it wants to express.

Maybe the heart wants to express the only thing it has: pain. That's why we were the most expressive in it, because we're focused on a single thing. Maybe, maybe that is why.