Very intimate diaries 18

I’m dried up of words. Feeling arid. I am confused, disoriented, unbalanced. I can no longer find the words to say my mental drought.

My well is almost dry. I can scarcely fill it, refresh it. I stroll like a reeling unfinished-life drunk.

I cry dry tears which scratch my face by digging life ruts. My inner-ocean of noises is emptied.

I'm lost among my words, drowned in my sentences and crushed by my pages.

The not to be able to say vacuum is so intense as it pierces me the inside as a dulled and rusty blade of clichés.

I can’t manage to come to light in a poetic way anymore. The poetry within me became dried out ink of arid prose.

I remain lost listening myself writing words. I can feel the ridiculous lives of my words, subjects without subjects. I jump from one sentence to another like a leapfrog of meaning. I lost the thread of my scrappy ideas.

I got lost a long, long time. I searched in black ink the light of my words. And then I woke up...

And now I’m found…