If only words can be a form of consolation to me, but what it does is set forth to make everything painfully clear and etched in reality. No longer in the vaguenss of one's mind and imagination. That is the power of words. Typed and written. In black, blue, red, green, yellow. It sets up boundaries and make ideas and feelings concrete. Gives them a set value. To voice out is fleeting. To think is fleeting. To write is to fix it in stone. For you to look at over and over again. Does it clarify? At times painfully so. Its like picking at your scabs and watching them bleed. It hurts but you cannot help it. It is difficult to write and write i must. But it is no form of consolation. Nothing is. Words make me ever deeper entrenched in the hopelessness of the situation. Only because the writer is not able to see beyond the mountain for she faces only a cliff that drops straight into nothing. Not time nor space. So no, writing is not a comfort nor catharic. I write in pain, and i read in pain and so, my words are painful. To me. When everything is written down, i cannot ignore it. I cannot lie and the thoughts would not escape me into oblivion despite what i may do to myself. I have taken thoughts in my head and externalized them, so that they are no longer my own, or under my control. I have given birth to them, given them form through a torturous labour. Yet these are mine, as they are no others. Hence only i could bleed. Only I. No one can help me. And most certainly not words.