Tapping the notebook with a pencil still sharp at the tip, I waited for the words to come. Ideas stormed my head, one after the other. Like a machine gun firing endlessly, the bullets came, detached and completely disconnected ideas flying past at lightning speed. I needed to catch one bullet, and work from there. Bleeding words into this empty notebook.
A forgotten friend. An ironic incident. A seemingly pointless endavor gone right. An amusing incident that would leave you scarred for life. The end of the world finally being here. The end of the world coming one at a time, personally. The second ice age. A love story. A happy love story. A tragic love story. A regretful experience. A need to forgive one's self...
Bullets ricocheting here and there, none of them hitting me. None of the ideas sparking my curiosity to translate them into written words. They fly past me, with me wondering what it would be like to be hit, to hurt, and hope that I heal.
Which brought one idea to mind: was it worse to die, or to live not having interest to write or express anything more?
I began to bleed.