Writing used to be something that I did everyday. I dwelt in it wherever I went. I ate it, I drank it and I even dreamt it. Words were just all over swimming in the trees for me to pick and paper them. I didn't have the need to look for them, because they were just there.

Then it just suddenly dwindled and now my hand feels a tad nervous and vacant. Don't get me wrong, I still am a lover of the word. Guess this is the right time to fill my hands again and start swording my pen.

When my eyes see your fragility bullied, I hurt so much but I can't do anything about it. I've been spending all my time waiting to talk to you. And when I do, I hurt even more because you step away. When will I ever be given the chance?

For every step I take forwards, I get pulled one step back. Never let me lose you, please, for I need you always to be by my side Lord.

Magic is something ordinary, like a child.

Someone told me I looked older. Strange how the things you feel manifests so plainly on your face.

Guess it's about time to throw the past over my shoulders and start making peace with everyone. But isn't that what I've always tried to do? Why am I still so bogged down with invisiblities?