Can I write some more, or am I all dried up of ink? I am a pen. Or I wish. Or ink is like my sea at night. Just maybe I should write more at night. Just maybe my ink will intermingle with the long, flowing night, or become like the vast, deep sea - whichever works better.
Stop. I will try to stop when the time comes. It will come like a barrier, a wall. All hard, all blank. I only hope it will not fall on me. It will not crush me like peanut squeezed open between index and thumb. But then, only then, I will see what is inside of me - isn't that what writing is all about? And miracles do happen like when you discover three little nuts instead of two.
I will be a bird. Fly free, and high. Not too near to the skies. They are too beautiful to be mine. Just close enough to be kind. Kind enough to see beauty in everyday life.
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