On the third week of April, I remembered the lost reflex of settling scores when it came knocking at my face that I was indubitably wronged. I knew I had every right to defend myself and the free space on that paper was my solace where I had poured my conclusion about your trickling incompetence.
Silence is alive. It shoots out like a sharp pendulum and turns back at us with a painful cut. I could’ve kept my silence but you don’t deserve to be protected at my own expense.
I am not a talker but I could make an essay of sensible points when given a pen and ample writing space. I might have the wobbliest voice upfront but it’s a different story when I write because my form of writing has been my anchor for the longest, most troublesome time.
I am actually a bit uncomfortable writing some untouched things on that paper. But then again, I also don’t want to tell myself one day that there was a time when I had the chance to say that I am not okay with how you manage things. I admit that my pride was hurt because I gave what I got and yet you’re making me feel disposable (which feels synonymous as limbo).