My fingers automatically click WordPress without need to type or touch any letters at all on the keyboard because even the passwords are automatically click, no argument if I should pursue writing this post because things are done in one click. And so I click and read, over and over some post, no argument whether they’re right or wrong, but they gave me ideas. Without any ideas myself without any arguing in trying to come up with one, I am certain of not even posting anything. With my fingers doing the job, I went on clicking as I sit on top of this bed, should I get up or eat, or take my shower first, just a question, but no argument. It is gloomy outside, the leaves are slowly turning yellow, falling down on the ground. Should I wish for summer back as the days get shorter and nights longer, just asking.
Should I continue writing this post about a patient in the last days of her life or not? But what are last days really? One week, one month, one year, two years? I could take her on a grand vacation wherever she wants to celebrate life before it ends.
I am not up to writing about life ending, there’s a push and pull inside of me. An argument. It’s on the second paragraph now I might leave that there. But my finger is pressing the cursor back to it, wanting to delete everything. Why should I stop saying what’s inside trying to come out? Is this writing or just plain emotion?
Might as well wish for summer to come back and feel the sweltering heat on my brows and neck. To run around and be able to take off my clothes. The heck, that’s what I read in novels and see in movies. Life is a cycle, death comes. One week, one month, one year, sometimes in a second.