When writing is a part of you

and after you stop its never the same the words don’t rhyme and the rhythm doesn’t sway and they no longer love the things that you say. you have to build yourself up all over again, you write because the need is to great, there’s a pressure in your chest, extending  throughout your body, veins threatening to implode, brain always murmuring, always stuttering, too many thoughts for your broken mind to contain. you write to feel okay, to feel whole, to feel like you haven’t disappeared into ink pots and pixels. you sob as you write, your talent is gone and it is all reduced to useless ramblings. your mind is deteriorated to nothing but the stories you tell yourself you must spill out before you die, so you write. but these words get caught in your veins, refusing to flow through your fingertips on to paper, or the blank faux sheet of paper on the screen in front of you. you’re not sure how to feel, whether you’re glad the words and ideas want to stay inside you and continue giving you life, or if you want to curl in the dark recesses and  cut them out. we all must die from something, why not choke on the words the world has stored inside your small frame. you’re a little girl, living in the big bad world, just hoping a story or two will help heal all the aches and pains of your generation. all of you are sad and depressed and lost. there is no lantern to guide our souls home.

 

find the one thing that redeems you, friend. it will sustain you, and keep you well. and if you write, write to heal us. we need love to help find ourselves again. will you be our light to guide us home?

 

The End

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