The Day I Stopped Writing

The day I stopped writing

Once upon in my almost shining moment, I was writing stories about random people and things. There were my short stories, memories and even feelings that I never felt before. It was composed of the carefully chosen words, or rhyming words, unforgettable experiences, notable moments, and a happily ever after kind of ending. That every moment almost felt like a dream, like somebody finally knew I exist. The audience pretty much enjoyed it. I guess. It felt great knowing your strength but at the same time, it felt amusing knowing that you finally had a definition of your own “weakness”.

Until one day, it stabbed me in the back then I stopped writing.

It stabbed me in the back that it hurt so much that I was naive at that moment. I never expected that one of the things I love the most would do that to me. How come I did not notice that back then? But one thing, out of the million things, is for sure. I did not stop writing because I’m feeling like it. I did not stop writing because somebody is telling me do so. I did not stop writing because I was out of words.

But instead, it was because the pen I was holding for a long time does not need me anymore to do its work. It was the same pen I was holding every time I feel down. It was the same pen I hold on to for so long that I cannot even let go of it. It forced me to stop. I thought I gave everything I can. I thought I gave everything up just for it. I thought it was enough. But it was not enough, it said. I was not enough. Time will soon tell what should I do next and the other day, it was it.

 I woke up the next day, thinking if I should do it. I got up and the first thing I saw was this,

“YOU SHOULD STOP. IT IS HURTING YOU. STOP,”

 it said while I was looking at the mirror.