I see the words, but the paper is blank.
The story that is in my head cannot leave my body.
The thing that I love is one that I cannot have.
Stories are being told, but the pen cannot fit in my hand.
The thing that makes me move is also the thing that keep me still.
I do not know where to start, but I do know how it ends.
To tell is to sing without words.
It is to walk without moving.
I cannot tell you what is happening.
I just know a dream is blossoming, but the nightmare is still around.