The words.

They spring from my fingers, as the ink spills across the page. I feel the relief rush through my veins as I find comfort through an old typewriter. The harsh staccato clacks of the keys slow my heart into their rhythm. The coldness starts to seep away. Slowly, but away all the same. I let my feelings, thoughts, and trapped emotions that I dare not share, nor could I, fall onto the page. The words blur before my eyes as tears of confusion build in my eyes.

What are these things that I feel? I ask my hurting consciousness.

I am only answered with the deafening silence of the empty room. A tear falls. My mind seems to just barely grasp a word to explain the things I feel.

Loneliness.

More tears fall.

I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.

I write faster. I fight the silence, the cold, with my old, spiritless typewriter. My pent up, confusing, traitorous feelings flow faster. My feeble attempts are quickly swallowed by the persistent silence. I type. I type. I type and I type. The cold swarms, nonetheless. My movements grow more fervent as the unforgiving, relentless cold envelopes me and spreads through my limbs.

Faster, quicker, slower.

My fingers slow.

It’s no use. The silence, the loneliness, will not go away.

I stop writing. The silence wins. I let it consume me, my words, these thoughts I cannot understand; and I s

                                                        t

                                                                   o   

                                                                              p.