Writing

Paper is cascading off my bed as I move my arm. Sprawling paper that’s crumpled and scribbled on. And feels light and helpless in my hands. The pinching and pulling feelings. That make me write. Are fading. I start to think again. I start to think about my family, and my hobbies, and my job. I feel sad. My mom is downstairs. I can hear her footsteps. I know they are her footsteps. I turn off the lamp, as it’s bright out now. My body adjusts to the shift. My writing. I keep my writing in a drawer. As if it will someday mean something.