Pseudo Writer

There is a house at the end of the road, I recognise it from the dusty photographs, that my store room bears the burden of. The house is full of rusty metals in dusty sheets, and devoid of the presence of sentient heartbeats. The main gate still carries a burden too heavy, a board that says 'ABANDONED BUILDING'. And the creaking floorboards ensure the perpetuity, of the solitude that is brought forth as an ambiguity. The tree that is at the centre of the backyard, has been leafless for over a decade. Birds around it have stopped the chirping spree, and squirrels have finished the nuts on the tree. A swing hangs from the withered branch, with one end of the rope torn in the middle, children don't sneak-in to have a who-goes-highest, and the adults don't scold them anymore. I often wonder if this house had abandonment issues, and that's why it became something so different, that I cannot even recognise my childhood home. Because that is what a...

For all that I hold dear, I must ask once more, what shall I do, when I can't do it anymore? When days bring despair and nights are still, what shall inspire me, to pretend once more? Over the illuminated sand, I stand once more, my feet are burning, my hands are sore. I love watching the oyster that graces the tides, even though I know it will never reach the shore. So then why do I do it, please tell me once more, what is it that I've forgotten on that shore? And if it was nothing that I ever left behind, then what's this darkness that I never saw before? I have pretended that I always keep the score, and that I am aware of where I stand on this floor, but I am quite clueless as to where this path can lead, and this pretense is just a front for an internal war. So finally as the front breaks, tremors are heard, ground shakes, I would like to ask just once more, what do I do, now that I can't do it anymore?             ...