i’m in a semi dark room.

the energy saving heater blows to warm the chilly space. the sky has turned a muted red and i feel the muted voices of my ancestors telling me to write something, anything.

but i don’t want to write. it’s too hard. the pain is too loud and obnoxious.

i want to sit and stare at bright screens and paper and quills and orange and black pens next to unsharpened pencils. i want to stare at them so i can try to conjure the memory of what they are truly for.

the ones and zeros and ink and lead don’t house the truth by virtue of their existence. what are they for?

the truth is behind that which moves these things. the objects that want for a muse. they will never speak truth, instead they will be the conduit for truth. but truth breathes rarely in this place. not even ink can coax it forth.

ink spills from my mouth and mind onto that which must receive it without complaint.

Paper has no choice. It must receive. The screen has no choice. It must receive.

i don’t want to give. i want to run and hide from this strange life that carries more pain than joy.

to die now in my sleep would be ok.

i hope reincarnation leaves me behind.

because words won’t bring peace, only voices from the past—voices that want me to write that which cannot heal.

but i don’t want to write. the pain is too loud.

© zaji, 2016