Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.


"The road to creativity passes so close to the madhouse and often detours and ends there."

- Ernest Becker.


There was once a story
meant to be written
but not to be read

It was that intense moment of realisation,
that one did not need to be a genuis to understand
anything single thing,
or anything at all.

It was right there all along
before it was made to be complicated.


There was once a story
about a person screaming for help.
When there was no need for that,
no need for that story.

It was so intense,
that the fixation of writing the story
was so captivating
and the words meant so much.

It was at that point in time,
where everything made sense
and everything felt like a standstill,
too good to be true.

It was right there all along,
a part of the mind
that the mind itself
did not want to accept.


There was once a story
that was a trap.
For there was no ending
to the story.

It was too intense,
it was to be written every day,
with the mind,
or not to be written at all.

It was meant to be kept right there
as a reminder
of what it was like to feel so lost
and alone.


There was once a story
that was a lesson learnt.
A story that surprising held so many morals,
so many lessons.

It was so intense,
that it couldn't have gone any better.
While there were no regrets,
and there were no parts to return to.


Some things are better left behind.
Not to revisited,
not to be reread,
not to be thought about.



Hit a wall.
Right now I need a miracle.


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