To say, to write; emotion my ink, flowing through pen. A story of my own, flaws that are shown, unsung to myself though shared through itself.
But when this ink runs dry, so too would my ideas die. Once fervent bloom, of multiple hues: reds of passions and sorrows as blue, greens of envy, violets of fear, petals that whisper, thorns that sear. But in such a drought of self, the bloom begins to wilt. My idea to wither, my sense to dither. Unknowing what of the cause, but rather to take a pause, to converse with myself in continued conversation, with such indication, to allow oneself to rest.
To stride along the rippling banks, expressing thanks to the world that shelters me so; would that not be so enjoyable? To reprieve through the immaculate senses, no longer enclosed by the fences of organisation; to truly contain the formation of myself once more. To watch the suns set below, the trees in breeze and the flora to grow, to attach myself to my selves, orchestrated in their own forms of enjoyment, and a continued relaxation though tempering of soul, through to my emotional role.
An aspect refilled, a song to be played, forward the paper and pen have been laid. To sit down and write, my personal light, further to feel my emotion conveyed.