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For such a long time, writing has become something as important as breathing for me. So suffering from writer's block for almost two maybe three years crushed me. So lost, so empty. As far as writing goes, I consider myself as a nightmare writer. I write better when I'm hurt, I write better when it's produced by pain, misfortune, and things gathered in between.
Monday Musing, well, is something like a weekly tradition that'll force me to write anything. Anything at all. A prose, an excerpt of a novel I'm currently writing, a poem, or just a simple thing. This will hopefully help my brain juices running. And for the first week, this is Florilegio. Initially, some of the first things I'm gonna post here will be a collection that I've posted in wattpad. Bit weird to be posting it again, but it'll do. Some might also be my old projects for school.

“Thoughts under construction, voices, cause of action.” That’s how I always explained that book to you wasn’t it?
I remember how every morning I’d catch you reading my so called nightmares in that book – sitting on the floor with your favourite coffee mug at one hand and the book at the other – this time of the day was, still is, my favourite. It was the only time we’d see each other bear naked. No secrets, no hunting pasts, just the present. And that’s what I love about you. You never cared of what happened, you never judged me for my past, and you judge me for who I am now. You never pressured me to find out why, you just waited for me to come... home.
I can still feel how every morning after you read you’d pick me up and put me on your lap to hold me, enveloping me in your warmth.
You always say that you couldn’t write like how I do, and what I wrote was beautiful. I don’t believe that, nightmares are never beautiful. They’re chaotic and wrecked, like me.
“Splendida florilegio.” You told me one morning while hugging me. “Mi dispiace.”
I never really understood what you said then, I wanted to ask so I waited. I sat down on the floor holding your favourite mug until I lost track of time. But then I opened my eyes, you never came back.
I tried to understand, until now I still try to understand.
Maybe someday, you’d read my nightmares. Maybe someday you’d come back and hold me again.

What have you written lately?