Writing.
I write cause writing gives me a way to release the demons that I have in my head.
My pen becomes an extension of my mind and moves with gay abandon, with a mind of its own.
I do not know if the words I put on paper make sense to me, to others. All I know that they are there so that I can get rid of, exorcise, the ghosts that dwell in the deep recesses of my mind.
I also write cause it brings me joy.
I feel that my spirit is soaring above the earth and floating into oblivion, free from all the troubles and breaking all the shackles of this mortal world.
I am no longer bound by the physical rules of the world and all my fantasies are real, they come to life.
And sometimes, when I am sad, the ink replaces my tears and the words become my emotions.
The fingers move and the words flow out, without a stop, baring my innermost feelings to all, so public and yet so private.
The words ache with the pain that I store within my heart, crying out for a touch that would heal my battered and bruised soul.
And then, I write cause I love writing.
I write without inhibitions, the fears evaporate at the sight of the pen and my thoughts crystallize into words; words that have a life of their own, independent of my existence.
I write so that I may be reminded, in the future, of the thoughts that once crossed my mind.
That I may be reminded of the way I once felt.
That I may learn the consequences of those feelings and not repeat the ones that hurt me and others.
Then again, I know not if I can do that, for emotions can’t be bound by reason…
The letters dance in my dreams, the alphabet: vowel and consonants swaying to the rhythm of my never ending thoughts.
I wake up drenched in sweat, looking for a pad to scribble, lest I forget what I feel. But then, I go back to sleep again, to be woken up again by this naked exhibition of the dark secrets I hold within me.
I tremble, scream and shout to get away from the feeling which engulfs me and draws me like a moth to the flame. I know my destiny like that very moth, but having fallen in love with the despair, I am drawn towards it, seeking solace in words where the night can offer me none.
I write so that I can go to sleep; I write so that I wake up: cause writing exhausts me yet refreshes me at the same time.
It taxes my mind and relaxes my soul.
It’s an aphrodisiac for my thoughts, which lock with each other in conjugal bliss, multiplying by the hundreds and thousands with no end in sight.
Some people say that writing is an art.
I don’t.
Writing is a state of mind, a semiconscious stage where the border between fantasy and reality blurs: the distinction between truth and fiction does not exist.
Anybody can write, you just have to know when.
And you have to have the courage.
The courage to put pen to paper and let it move on its own, starting with nothing more than lines.
Soon the lines become curves, curves become alphabets, alphabets turn into words, words come together to form sentences, sentences morph into verses and paragraphs and paragraphs run into pages: the pages of life.
And once I’ve written something, I don’t read it, never again.
Cause writing for me is instant gratification: for that moment and that moment alone, discarded for all eternity.
It’s a chain of thoughts that has lost its reason to exist, cause it is out of my head. It is dead. It is defunct.
I write about my dreams, my nightmares; about the light and the dark; about love and hate: but most of all I write about sadness.
Cause sadness depends not on the situation, but is a way of life, a way that most people follow.
Look under the skin of most people and you will find sadness.
I write about sadness cause writing about it makes me forget about it, makes me happy.
Ironic.
It makes me comatose, I can hear all, see all, but am still unable to react to my surroundings.
Its like a never ending high, in the depths of hell.
I write cause I am.
I am cause I write.
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