Threshold

Entry 3 – The Writer's Confession

Dawn after dawn,

dusk after dusk

I have written until my vision blurred

with both dreams and sorrow’s dew,

until my heartbeat matched the pace of the

blinking cursor, and quieted like the

empty haven of exhausted quill.

I have traded sleep for sentences,

paragraphs, lines and stanzas,

rest for pages, and still,

the world did not clap.

But what if that’s not what this was for.

Maybe writing was never just

about the applause,

maybe it was about the essence and meaning.

Maybe it was about holding

myself together with words when

the world felt too hard to understand.

They say “writers don’t cry,

We bleed on paper”,

But no one talks about how

the wounds still sting

long after the words dry.

Still, I pick up the pen again,

because the stories don’t stop whispering,

the lines don't stop forming,

the inspiration doesn't stop coming,

the ink doesn’t stop pouring,

and the fire doesn’t stop burning –

even when my eyes ache to close.

Some words make it out alive –

dragged through the weight of

exhaustion, trembling between meaning,

realms and silence.

Others never do.

They remain buried deep

in the messy grave of my drafts,

half formed and forgotten,

sentences that once tried to live

but couldn’t find the strength to finish.

.

It’s not that they died.

Maybe they’re just waiting,

for a calmer night,

a calmer heartbeat,

a clearer lead,

a writer who isn’t so tired,

a writer who will not let

the words break with her heart.

So until then, I’ll let them rest.

Because unspoken words

matter as much as spoken ones do.

They are the proof that I tried.

Now, I’ll relent - Not because I’ve given up,

but because I’ve learnt that creators

need time to find their selves,

to breathe between the lines.

And when I wake, I’ll write again.

Not just for the applause.

Not just for the recognition.

But because the Words still choose me and my heart choose them.