There are words written on pages, typed by these fingers, crafted by this brain.
There are thousands upon thousands of words that describe in intricate detail the beauty and imperfections of life, words that tell stories of experiences, of hopes, of fears and overwhelming feelings.
As the world around us slips away from our grasp once again and old words are all that lay in place of memories, we cling desperately to the only proof we have that we ever existed at all.
These words were not written by me, even though they also were.
Somehow neither mine nor not mine until rightfully claimed, words that bled crimson from my brain and yet their author remains lost somewhere in the ether between the real world and deepest subconsciousness.
These words that are not mine, tell of a life I can now barely remember nor relate to and I cling to them with all my might for without them I fear I may cease to exist. They are all I have left to prove that I have felt, to prove that I have thought, to prove that I have lived.
I know I can never stop writing, even when lost in seemly infinite melancholy, even when I have nothing of importance left to say, I must still write.
When all I can summon is the strength to pick up a pen and describe the leaves upon the trees and the scents in the air, I must.
For while I cannot connect to this world now, perhaps one day I will learn how to feel the world in my heart and then when united with my old words, perhaps I will discover a trove of memories and finally know in my soul that I exist, that I am real, that the world I see around me is more than just a beautiful illusion, but a miracle of life that I got to share.