Untitled Prose

This is a little prose I stumbled across today that I had intended to be part of a much larger work. 

My thoughts wander to every moment of my life. It is like flipping through a photo album, yet each photo takes on a life of its own. They’re a wormhole, sucking me in with nothing to grasp on to, so I have no choice but to endure the ride.

Now as I travel back to reality, I find myself sitting back at my desk with a pen in my hand. I tap the pen onto the paper, hoping it will spark some inspiration, but still the words remain hidden. They’re somewhere in my jumbled mind, behind a door with no key. Frustration is my worst enemy. The words won’t escape from their prison to roam free on the page. A part of me wants to toss it aside, to keep my words imprisoned. But another part of me knows that this is the work of the one who is set to destroy and letting him win is not an option. My heart needs to spill out onto the page.

 I pace my dimly lit room, letting my memories run like a current leading to a steep waterfall. But never do I allow myself to hold anything back. My story has to be told, if not for me, but for the world. Some might not understand and some could even shun me; it’s a risk I’m willing to take.