The medicine of writing (2)

What a horrible day!  Pushing my tears back, takes a lot of effort.  I glance at the pencil on the table, but I must stay strong, wait, be patient.
The noise builds, and so does my frustration.  It takes even more effort not to yell and let the tension inside rampage.  Every step is painful, every minute one too many.  But I’m holding on, gritting my teeth.

Finally, the time is at hand.  The pencil in my hand feels like a breath of fresh air.  Its starts to move over the piece of paper.  At first a bit hesitant, but soon the lead scribbles feverish, from left to right.  Page after page is decorated with words and sentences, as I feel the frustration subside.

When I put my pencil down, after making sure all of my frustration has left, the clock tells me how many hours have passed. I feel emotionally drained, my hand feels numb, and so do my legs.  I stand up, leave my writings behind, and finally rest in the warmth of my bed.

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