She put down her pen.
Two hundred more pages to go or maybe just fifty.

“Had she actually lost it?” she asked herself.

The fire – so much of it she might have left somewhere. How and when, she could not even remember.

Five years of searching in empty nooks and crannies, facing dead ends, trailing precipices, chasing waterfalls, longing to somehow find a part of yourself that fits, that is never amiss, that belongs, that rhymes, that makes sense.

And it takes some wretchedness and mostly just sadness to realize, one day, how it had been a long walk you took yearning for something that is not even there.
 

So how exactly do you piece that together?
Or where do you start picking the pieces that keep falling apart?
Or would you even bother?

It was always easy to walk away.
She had been doing that for the longest time now –
Walking away.

But now all the things that she had left had seemed to have never left her, she carried them anywhere, she realized – phantoms, a whole luggage full of hungry phantoms.

She took another long look at the white washed walls and finished her coffee. It was too bitter, but she liked it too bitter.

It was like when your body immunologically resists the introduction of some foreign tissue or organ into it and you refuse anything that is not bitter, because you do not know anything else that is not bitter.

And that is how you end up liking things too bitter.

The smell of cigarette was all over the place. She did not like the heat and the noise and the awful smokes all together, but that was the only place that reminded her of herself – that very part she was afraid she’ll never find again.

She paused and read what she had written.
Two hundred more pages to go or maybe just fifty.

It still did not make sense, though.

She still wrote in fragments, she still wrote in non rhymes,
What could be done? She would never know.
She still wrote, and still wrote,
and heck, she was still writing.