Even when I stop writing for one day

I feel its lack acutely and a certain worthlessness about all the time that was not spent writing

it’s as though I deprived myself of love, forgot about it for a while

But why did I not write?

I thought to myself that perhaps taking one step backward would help me refocus on what I truly want to write

I feared the poems I was writing were becoming slightly redundant, repetitive, trapped in a circular pattern

They are, and they’re not at the same time, for life is circular and repetitive, to a certain extent

as long as I’m journeying on this path, I will be writing about the same things basically, my search for true love

each new text will sound already familiar, and yet each is a little piece of the puzzle that is still lacking

writing helps me to stay focused on this path, writing helps me to make sense of what happens to me

even when I’m deprived from the other half of my gift, that of building worlds, I still must treasure the words that drip from my pen

I still must encourage them to flow, because they are the way out from this maze