When I gently flip open the worn out pages someone else has written, chaos still flows around me, but all is calm in my mind.

I go through the routine motions of my everyday: walk, bus, sit, listen. Searching for the perfect times to put my headphones in and read, and scribble in the margins.
The day and night pass, almost unnoticed to me, while my pierced nose is still stuffed in the pages of different worlds and eras, with unordinary characters that comfort me more than the people I call my friends.

When I put pen to paper
Or my fingers to the keyboard,
All the thoughts passing through my mind shine through and I’m set.
I’m free, I don’t have to be outspoken as long as I’m not out worded on my word doc.

I haven’t forgotten about you, my most honest friend, sometimes the only one I can turn to. you know everything, there are no limitations between us except maybe the limited word count on my text message drafts or memo notes, where I can easily and quickly write down my thoughts at 2, almost 3 am, before they slip away.

Why do you write if no one reads it?
I write for me.
How many thoughts do you have jammed in your mind?
I’ve lost count.
Picking at my mind, I comfortably reveal beliefs, and disbeliefs I didn’t even know I had.

All I hope for is to carve out letters, form words, create sentences, and paragraphs to calm his mind as well.

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