The truth is, I am not really here to write. Words doesn’t bode well with the weight of my emotions. I never expected for these letters to be the platelets the could wash away the cherriness of your smile when you closed that distance I once thought was impossible to reach. I never believed that writing can clothe the rose colored promises you swore someday will happen. I never liked this. I hate writing. Because whenever I start to dig words, there’s only you in my mind; your name, your words, your whole being. So what am I really doing here? Why am I playing these ryhmed poetries in the hearts of those who can read; targeting their vulnerable parts like mine. What’s my purpose really? when you know too well my intention is: To ink all the places you could wander off; stamping my thoughts in every pages, every site, every part of the world. So if you started looking around for a safe haven, you’ll only feel me everywhere; uncalled. You’ll see every piece of me you stepped on. I know I’m no writer, but for you, I will be from now on.
— 禅 -ちゃん. The Afternoon Artist