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Story 777 When the paper got wet in the mist

I thought I would never be able to write again. It was sad. And what made me sadder was her words that I would never be able to write again, so I couldn’t have any love in the future. Writing and love are born and die at the same time. That was correct.
When the text slipped out of my chest, she ran away too. You would have thought there was nothing to expect.

-You won’t be able to come back.

Said. I really thought it would, so my face became irresistibly wet. I wanted to respond to her, but I couldn’t. Because it was me who said that. I wanted to say no, but I was right. You won’t be able to come back. The article won’t come back.
Unable to find a place to answer, I pressed my throat and entered a small room to hide. Sometimes the room where she stayed with me. I said to the wall. I’ll be able to come back. Echoes bounce off the wall. The wall that ate my voice asks back in her voice.

how? The wall asks questions. What I hated so much was the question. I can’t answer. I especially hated questions that couldn’t be counted. Can’t calculate, can there be an answer?
How is it? It was a question with no calculations and no answer. I hated it.
As I sat with my back on the wall, the wall became quiet. Finally the wall is doing its part. To provide a place to lean on without words. I wanted to give a face to the wall that that was all you had to do, but I didn’t. With that said, what else does the wall ask?

When the cold wall became lukewarm, I remembered when I first wrote a poem. There are benches under the blue sky. When I sit down, the bench becomes my friend. When the wind blows blue in the sky, I become blue too. My friend, with a bench in the park.
I couldn’t remember the contents of the poem I wrote in the 6th grade. This poem came to mind when the wall was shutting up, perhaps because the memory of the poem was thrown away again began to explode in silence.

When I first wrote a poem. I didn’t think I should show the poem to anyone. Rather, I expected it would be embarrassing. It really was. Did you write the poem that my partner wrote on my exercise book? (My partner was a pretty popular girl), and I instantly answered no. I sweat on my soles. I just copied it from somewhere. When I said that my partner wrote it well, my mind was dizzy. I just wanted to burn the practice range. In the end, I didn’t have a place to burn, so I saw the end as tearing it up and didn’t write after that.

If I hadn’t been too young at that time, the smile and praise of my favorite girl wouldn’t have been so embarrassing. Had it not been, the attempt would not have been torn. Had that poem lived alive, my love would not have ended there either. You won’t be able to write again, so you won’t be able to love anything in the future. She was right. To me, writing and love were together. Only when my writing was written could my love be a story. We loved when we constantly wrote letters to her and said poems.

Still, I want to respond to her. I may be making excuses for her who loved me, a poet, because she felt betrayed, but I still want to say this. Probably the opposite will not be different. It might be right to be able to write only when love is in me. So when her love was hazy with fog rather than sunshine, my paper would get wet and my pen would be rusty.

How do you say it? I couldn’t calculate or answer the question. It wasn’t a question she would ask me. It was a question I had to ask her. How can I be loved again and be able to write? Questions like what should I do.

I lie on my back against the wall, and the words pop out again involuntarily. You will be able to get it back. I was confused and closed my ears. The walls were quiet. The wall that was lukewarm became cold again. I won’t be able to get it back. After saying one last word, I opened the closed ear comfortably.

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