There had been different waves, but, dear, I did not know where to sail. You could find me near the shore sometimes, looking beyond the horizon. I would sit upon the sand and dug the depths no one had ever reached.
There had been millions of books, but, darling, mine remained unreadable. In the crumpled papers, my faded ink begged for a wise eye. Chapters after chapter piled until the shelf could no longer hold the burden of the untold tales.
Could it be my curse, to be looked upon but never to be truly seen? Was this the burden of an old, lost soul, to be heard but never understood?
Sweetheart, now that I had known better, I chose to build an ocean of my own. Where the waves led me to the solitude, I’d long. When the night came, I would read that book under the stars until the shelf would finally feel relief.
Now, baby, I lost my voice, but I found myself. Maybe one day, I would have the both.
