The night is still young and vibrant yet here I am , holding a glass of red wine in my hand and the other hand holding a pen . Wondering what words will form on the blank paper as I stare in hope that by magic the words will appear . I hope but nothing happens as  the paper is  still fresh and clean .

I wonder how long will it take me to write ? 

I wonder why my head is full of words yet when the pen touches the paper no words form like the ink has just ran out even though there was plenty of it . Maybe I'm too drunk right now  or maybe I'm too scared that once the  pen touches the paper it will ruin it as if the paper  meant the world to me even though it's just an ordinary paper . 

I'm crazy right ?  A writer who is scared of ruining a piece of paper with words . But you see once the ink touches the paper , colour is added on as it takes away the dullness of the paper but what happens if I like it that way . The cleanness of the paper . The whiteness of it . 

Here I am without words yet the metaphor is already there . You who remind me of this paper . You who filled my head with words yet I struggled to say it then just like now I struggle to write .  You who made my head hurt like this wine as it reminds me of my insanity .

Tell me I'm not crazy . Tell me that I'm not dreaming . Tell me that I'm normal .

The night is still  young but why do I feel old as if time has fast foreword and left me in a diff