A man sits across from an empty chair in his study. He is writing frantically in his journal. The candle on his desk has long since gone out, yet still, he writes. The only sounds now are the scribbles of his pen and the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.
Surrounded by silence and shadows he continues to write at an increasing pace. His pen stumbles across the page as he scrambles to jot down every thought in his head. But the more he writes, the less he understands and it doesn't help that the ticking of the clock is getting louder. Hammering relentlessly, endlessly, consistently into his skull. Still, he keeps writing, hoping that if he can finally write everything down that the storm in his head will cease.
But every word he writes feeds the noise. The pen now shrieking as it cuts across the page. Still, he writes. More and more, until the words begin to feel foreign and mocking. They start bleeding together, no longer representing anything coherent instead manifesting as random fragments and strange feelings that only have meaning in his twisted mind. The incessant ticking and tocking of the clock hammering in his head creating a whirlwind of noise mixed with emotions and all he can do is keep writing.
As he continues to write, his handwriting deforms into something no longer his own. The scrawls fill the page, the letters warped and fractured, no longer adhering to the lined paper. He cannot even remember what he started writing about, only that he must keep saying it over and over in hopes that eventually it will mean something to someone. It feels less like a journal and more like a mirror, reflecting back fragments of a self he doesn't know anymore.
And so he writes and he writes but neither words nor time will ever heal those wounds and he can never put all his thoughts on a page but how could anyone emotions are so complex and impossible to describe they can only be felt and that's all he can remember is the feeling and so he writes in a desperate attempt to quantify these sentiments screaming into a void so empty not even an echo returns and at the end of the day its words on a page only he will truly understand.