Some writer’s inner guilt
9 missed calls and 5 messages
All unanswered and unopened
“I’m sorry for the late reply” has been my go-to response
Because I truly am, sorry
I’m sorry for not returning the invite
I’m sorry for not returning the calls
I’m sorry that my silence hurt you
I’m sorry that my absence neglects you.
It wasn’t my intention
I was in my own zone
Thoughts are whirling in my mind
Ideas are pouring in
This does’t happen all the time
So I have to sit with them
I need to scribble them
And make sense of them
In this case, does the phrase “it’s not you, it’s me” suffice?
Because when I’m with you, I want to be with you
To understand you
To be open to you
To be silly with you
And to laugh genuinely with you
Not my fingers itching to write
Not my eyes glancing at the clock
Not my mind creating my drafts
And not my Notes already opened
I want to explain to you
I long to share my thoughts with you
I would love you to see these stories hoping to be born
Believe me, I do
But how can I, if I haven’t grasped them yet?
How can I express them to you if I don’t let them speak to me?
How can I tell you that these words have been my solace?
That these stories make me feel alive?
That this is not just my hobby, it’s my therapy?
Soon, I’ll share them all with you
My friend “publish” will notify you
For now, let me savor their presence
Unlike our stories that never end
These words will come to an end
I promise I’ll come around
And I hope you understand
'Till then 💕
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