Please Don't Take My Writing

Please don't steal this from me.
Please don't steal my words from me.
Please don't take my writing from me.

This is my identity.
Writing is who I want to be.

It's what I've worked on since I was six years old, even though it wasn't a ... faith then. It was an enjoyment; writing stupid essays which were the best in class; and bigger; wanting to be a librarian to be closer to books; and bigger; writing in my orange spiral-bound Bingo! notebook, my first proper story, even if I never finished it, with parts cut out and re-edited.
Then my green, paper-back notebook, which had two grown-up story beginnings, and then I wrote more and more and more of another story, which ended up on random sheets of paper, but I had to WRITE. I had to write and write, and write my heart out.

It gave me a wondrous feeling, like angelic contentment, which really made me feel special. Like I was the only one.
Then writing fanfictions, reading fanfictions, both which actually improved my writing and vocabulary, because I yearned to write like some people. They wrote like Arachne wove cloth - beautifully, impossibly, gorgeously. And it was only right to be able to compose narratives like they did. 

And then, after being shunned by my English teacher this year, while before all my teachers praised my writing ability, I finally made her proud. "Jezebel has a distinct writing style, which you can't copy."
"There's only one student who completed her work with above satisfactory standards - Jezebel."
"Read Jezebel's work, she's done it extremely well."

And I absolutely glowed at this praise, because before, this teacher thought me strange and not good enough.

And my friends read one of my poems ('Do You Know Me') and one declared it, "Exactly how I feel. You'll become famous one day!"

And I didn't want it to get to my head; I kept working on my writing. It could get better, it could be brilliant.

But now I'm so, so scared.
I'm scared because I've been neglecting my exam prep, because I honestly didn't feel like revising. It didn't fit right. And some wacko karma is here and for a good half an hour, no matter what songs I put on, no matter how calm I tried to get, no matter that I had so much inspiration today, I just couldn't write. Anything.

Please don't take this from me.

My eyes become glassy with actual tears when I think of my writing disappearing; vanishing in to a nothingness. Whisking itself away. Being left with nothing but... me. Me. 
I enjoy art. I adore music. I love writing. And if one of those things leaves me, the others will follow like a dog's tail.

And that absolutely terrifies me.

Because that is all me; ME. Creative, inspirational, artistic.

I'm known with my friends to always be doodling or sketching in my special, fat notebook. Sticking gum wrappers, writing quotes, exchanging hilarity with others, doodling random doodles. People ask me all the time if they can go through it, even though that sounds vain.

But I've got my diary, and my black notebook - in which I write things I could never tell anyone. Draw things which mean special things. Quote songs which mean life to me.

But mostly, write.
And if God decides to take back this gift from me... I don't know what I'll do. 
Maybe I've done something wrong. Maybe I'm being mean or lying too much or doing something wrong. Maybe He'll be angry and decide I don't deserve these blessings.

This is me, huddled up in the dark corner of my shady room, begging with every last breath to not take this from me. I beg.

Because I can't live without this. This is my life.
I'm just so scared. Scared of my thoughts, scared of my 'What If?' moments, scared of everything just so, so much. 

Who will I be without music? And art? And... writing?

The End

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