All writers are, to some extent, damaged people
Writing is our way of repairing ourselves
Sometimes paper has more patience than people
Writing is self-exhaustive, nevertheless
Because everything you produce comes out of your soul
At the end of the day, though the sun is hidden beneath rows of grayish cloud, sunrays can be seen as the sun is slowly collapsing to the edge of the far west side. The sunlight is bleeding into ocean of colors then creeping into the monochromaticity of this town, creating thousands of translucent glows into the windowpanes and the sidewalks. Late February but the icy twang of winter refuses to give a chance to the spring breeze, keeping a company to the lonely souls, freezing any form of warmth. Winter has never been kind to the metropolis though it lavishes them with the fairest color; snowflakes fall as if dragging the hourglass with them, making the time to move even slower.
The only pleasant thing about winter here is that it is as if you have forever, time is irrelevant and maybe the clock would never hit the ending.
As the pedestrians walk in such hurry while the others leisurely enjoy the purplish red painting at the boundaries, another man appears from the end of the street with his heavy briefcase is being carried on his left hand. The dark cloak he is wearing is soaked at some place and so are his boots. The man seems had forgotten his hat, pile of jet black hair sticks out onto his forehead due to sweat and traces of melted snows, and his cheeks and nose are beet red; he must be freezing.
Horrible memories next to good means the two often commingle. You wish to remember a nice moment, but get that uneasy tingle. Pleasant nostalgia ruined by things you could erase. Forgetting is usually impossible, but brains have a lot of open space. Simply defragment your brain, store the dark memories to the side, in the empty unused portions of the mind, you put them to hide. There they cannot bug you, or infest what you wish to recall. No more pausing in past regrets, slowing your brain to a crawl. You will live happier not remembering anything that made you sad. While over time that data may leak out, and flashes breakthrough, just defragment your brain again.
And you will never have to be you.
P.S: I have been writing the series for over a year. And I don’t want my efforts end up in the pile even though they are substantially far from satisfying. It is just my way to elaborate my mind, to try something what I desire since I fell in love with books and sentences. The last parapgraphs are some prompt/writing/art from tumblr that listed at the credit.
N.B: Seri ini sudah berumur lebih dari setahun dan saya tidak mau usaha saya menulis bakal sia-sia begitu saja. Apalagi penulisan dalam Bahasa Inggris merupakan sebuah tantangan yang belum pernah benar-benar saya capai dengan memuaskan meskipun sudah ada beberapa yang saya coba.
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