I was incessantly looking at the scabs on my elbow when, all of a sudden, a few images of my recent past flashed in front of my eyes. The images were vivid; it felt like yesterday although it happened yesterday. I could smell those pictures; I saw blood on my elbow dripping onto a white cotton carpet sluggishly. I had punctured my elbow with my sister’s divider. She hated that thing, for she didn’t know how to use it. I counted the wounds; I had struck myself five times. Now the wounds were healing, and I felt like itching one. Impatiently, I scratched off one scab; the skin got ruptured, and a little drop of blood emerged from the wound.
Just like the stained white cotton carpet, pages on my table are stained with my thoughts. Without an opening, I couldn’t have stained the white carpet, and it’d have remained white except being a comfortable place for dust and mites. Likewise, the scattered pages on my table need to be stained. Without a cut, I can’t stain those premium white pages that can give me deep paper cuts. Just like blood oozing through wounds, thoughts come out from mental wounds.
Otherwise, who has picked a pen without a wounded mind?
Just like the stained white cotton carpet, pages on my table are stained with my thoughts. Without an opening, I couldn’t have stained the white carpet, and it’d have remained white except being a comfortable place for dust and mites. Likewise, the scattered pages on my table need to be stained. Without a cut, I can’t stain those premium white pages that can give me deep paper cuts. Just like blood oozing through wounds, thoughts come out from mental wounds.
Otherwise, who has picked a pen without a wounded mind?
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