INNERMOST COLLISION
I have never thought of being an author. At the very most, a writer, but not even so. I have always written for myself. I still do. I need to get some thoughts out of my head as, sometimes, it is getting crowded in there.
People ask me why I do not share my stories. It is too personal, I said. My stories and my poetry are running through my veins, they flood my dreams, whisper me during the day and flicker quietly, but dashing, into the night. Sometimes they burn, at other times, they are ice-cold. Some come from afar, others are close. They grow like forests, unleash like storms, scream like thunders, live like lightnings, smell like burning wood, appear like fog, sound like quiet or wind.
But there is no doubt of it: they all come no matter what. They rise from the depths like titans, they fall like them as well. I see them. I see the words how they take shapes in my mind and, then...then they never fall silent till heard and seen. And after they are written, they can finally find some rest. But do they?
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Feed them stories! You need it. They need it.