the day it poured

You pick up your pen and begin to scribble… to write… to cry… to let it all out. And with every stroke, with every line, an emotion would flow. Every sentiment you’ve hidden will now reveal itself, imprinted and carved on wood pulp. You dot your I’s with tears, and your periods with pain so unbearable you’d wish you could scream. And if you could, they would hear. You wish that someone would come across it and read between the lines. That somehow he or she would understand. Or that he or she would even offer his or her shoulder. Maybe just the simple thought that they would shake their head, wipe a tear and feel your pain would be enough for you. And somehow you would have strength to move on… to quench that pain and smile.

Yet you are left hollow... unfilled… and empty. Amid this torture you imagine a friend. A friend who would not judge nor condemn you for whatever thoughts you have. A friend, who, unlike the ones you thought would stand by you, would never leave. Someone who would be able to look at you straight in the eye and say, “It’s okay… it doesn’t matter.” Someone who would feel with you, understand you, give you strength… and maybe even breathe a new life into you.

You imagine… and with that, the pen would drop from your grasps, the paper would lay forgotten, your angst left unwritten… Thank you, "M" for taking that call and listening to my rants.. Twas really appreciated..