Blank

Many a times she felt the urge to write, but no words came to her. She kept staring at the blank sheet of paper waiting to be filled, but her mind mirrored the blankness of the paper. Writing helped her relieve the anger and pain she felt, kept it all at bay for a while; but how can you write when you don’t know what you wanna write about?

She wondered often what would make her feel better. Revenge was too easy; she knew a million ways in which she could avenge all that he had put her through. He would be finished by the time she was through with him; a mere shell of a man. But that would be too easy. Also, it was beneath her. She wanted closure, but seeking closure in the misery of the person who had hurt her wasn’t her style. She had tried talking sense into him, tried to make him understand the effect his words and actions had on her; but he had behaved like a man-boy, refusing to take responsibility, instead resorting to downright denial.

There was no point in dwelling on the past. It only brought about more pain, dragging her into the depths of darkness from where she found it impossible to escape. When the heart is ripped apart, it’s a death of its own kind, where the body is alive but the soul is long gone. How long would it last, this existence like that of a corpse?

It seemed futile sometimes, all this hurt for what? For someone who is long gone, for someone who didn’t deserve her? She knew her worth, yes, she did. Every time she had looked at him she had seen ‘perfect’ written all over him. What she had failed to see was the fine print: waste of time.