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Description
Your words drew me in; they were intriguing so I kept returning to see if any more appeared. But the silence seemed to be the only one speaking, and then a few weeks ago, they disappeared.

Your feelings - that's why I started to write. When there were no voices, and the silence seemed to echo - the words were a temporary consolation. Even my own voice was a voice. But then it droned, and it seemed not my own - or worse, my own became just an echo, as if to nothing. The worst was when the voices all spoke but none spoke to you. Your own words seeming to wear out and...slip off the screen? I seem to repeat those words so often now. Repetition, repetition, repetition - that's what we call rambling isn't it?

It will pass, though. Tired of my own voice and I started listening to the voices of those who speak just to speak. No more expectations. And I found myself again in their words. Or, like Hesse - to kill the self that was split from the world in search of something higher, to find "eternity" in the present and here. And it has become the way I write: "I write because writing itself is a fulfillment. I think one can only truly express in writing when one is free and without restriction. After that all questions of morality or ethics only depends on the way the writer is as a person. It is so naturally reflected in that way." This, which I wrote afterward, turned into my view of life, somehow. And I turn to it because the words are the self that I grasp - the self with the perspective on life that contains the only thing I never want to change.

To want to dance alone because of the freedom of nobody watching. Not alone - to dance with the dance itself.

It might seem like I wrote a whole lot of nothing here. But I can't write as if I know everything you feel. I can't just nod and say I understand. I can just speak. I know you will recover.

God bless,
><> Elizabeth <><

Description
Your words drew me in; they were intriguing so I kept returning to see if any more appeared. But the silence seemed to be the only one speaking, and then a few weeks ago, they disappeared.

Your feelings - that's why I started to write. When there were no voices, and the silence seemed to echo - the words were a temporary consolation. Even my own voice was a voice. But then it droned, and it seemed not my own - or worse, my own became just an echo, as if to nothing. The worst was when the voices all spoke but none spoke to you. Your own words seeming to wear out and...slip off the screen? I seem to repeat those words so often now. Repetition, repetition, repetition - that's what we call rambling isn't it?

It will pass, though. Tired of my own voice and I started listening to the voices of those who speak just to speak. No more expectations. And I found myself again in their words. Or, like Hesse - to kill the self that was split from the world in search of something higher, to find "eternity" in the present and here. And it has become the way I write: "I write because writing itself is a fulfillment. I think one can only truly express in writing when one is free and without restriction. After that all questions of morality or ethics only depends on the way the writer is as a person. It is so naturally reflected in that way." This, which I wrote afterward, turned into my view of life, somehow. And I turn to it because the words are the self that I grasp - the self with the perspective on life that contains the only thing I never want to change.

To want to dance alone because of the freedom of nobody watching. Not alone - to dance with the dance itself.

It might seem like I wrote a whole lot of nothing here. But I can't write as if I know everything you feel. I can't just nod and say I understand. I can just speak. I know you will recover.

God bless,
><> Elizabeth <><