How did picking up a pen and writing become so addicting? How did I become so consumed by the smell of the ink of the page and thrilled to hear the light scratching on the page. When did I write, why do I write? Why do you breathe? Simple: To live. I write because I need to keep these monsters in my head at bay, constantly I have a mental war raging in my skull, hissing, clawing, and screaming at me. My own spiteful words caging me in this internal sorrow.
“You are not good enough, and you never will be. Just stop, just give up, why do you keep fighting for something you can never have? You’re too, ugly, too skinny, too dumb you are worthless.”
I hear those words taunt me every day, I write because I need to keep these monsters on the blank page before me instead of dwelling in my negative mind. I can’t be consumed by this darkness, it almost killed me once, not again. I write because it’s how I think clearly, it’s how I live. If I don’t pick up this pen and write, my own darkness will consume me and I refuse to go back to that time and lose my will to fight. I write because it’s my escape, it has allowed me to open up and let positive things happen to me. If it wasn’t for wielding this pen as my sacred weapon I would surely have did many years ago. I write so I can breathe.
ns 18.68.41.175da2
