I need to write to live.

It is my belief that there is nothing more terrifying than staring at a blank white piece of paper.
And that applies to everyone, really, those of us who make a living out of writing, and those who can’t make out an essay from a novel.

It’s terrifying because you don’t want to spoil the gorgeously white paper with scribbles that make little to no sense, soak it with poisonous ink and pathetic tears and ruin it as you try to express your earthly whims and poison it as you begin to formulate your burning desires and apologize for your deepest regrets. The paper is innocent, white, untouched. It’s everything you are not.

But I need to write. God, do I need it so bad. I am overflowing with words, drowning in my own mind, as would a tiny kitten drown in the sink if you don’t pay careful attention to it, yet at the same time I can’t seem to get a single word out. Every time I mean to open my mouth and get rid of some of the pain that’s building inside of me, project some of its accumilating charge outwards, nothing remotely coherent nor comprehensible comes out.
It drives me mad.

But, inevitably, you have to get it out or else you’ll explode, won’t you? You know that’s bound to be the end of you if you keep on bottling it all in. That’s the bloody physics of it, okay, don’t you go trying to fool yourself otherwise.
My friend, I understand. I relate. I know what it feels like when writing is your only escape.
Hear me out when I say I can’t remember the last time I had a good laugh, or spilled my hearts content out to another human being who could relate and felt a connection being made. I have been feeling this merciless cold creeping through the walls of my chest, sending my heart into a fit of winter cold and rendering it blue and creaking.

I’m tired of living, of breathing, of people, of myself, the world, the air, the constant machinery in factories, the corrupted authority, the bad weather in my city, the cloud of haze that’s continuously sitting on my head, the pain I feel when I miss someone…

That’s why I need to write. I need to write to get it out of my system. Maybe then I’ll feel better.

It just remains debatable whether or not the paper deserves to be thrown the unfortunate fate of bearing my words.


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