An eerie silence echoes through the creaking
Their is nobody home, And no soul to sing
or paint life into the air. No busy
kitchen, with tea and coffee, or
cookies and milk. Their is no light
in the fireplace, And no laughter
in the once lively kitchen.
Furniture still sits within unused rooms,
covered with dust, As though abandoned and forgotten.
Beds are made, but why bother?
Nobody sleeps in the beds, nobody has for ages.
Ambiance roams throughout, causing
a ghost-like atmosphere. It is cold, lifeless,
This isn’t a home anymore of memories.
This is just an old house without life.
Remember the joy of Christmas morning as a child?
But eventually, Christmas Day became another ordinary day,
And that special morning joy, stopped around the age of 12-13.
It is the euphoria of writing that makes me come
back time and time again to a blank page, and attempt to
fill that page with magic.
When I write, it feels like joy on a Christmas
morning again. I write because it makes me happy,
And because it is a yearning, a need, something I must do.
Aside from euphoric emotions, it is writing
that can turn even tragedy, misfortune, and heartache,
into something beautiful. And in a world populated by
troubles, happiness is like a rare gem to find.
What do you love about writing?
Let me know!