I write for so many reasons

I take all this chaos within my head, and put it into words

So many demons within me.

Funny right?

1 friend in reality

80 friends online.

Funny right?

Why do people not like me?

See?

Use that.

I feel so alone

I really do

And I take all that pain within my heart,

And put it all into words

Even if no one sees it

“People don’t know what It’s like to try and make yourself feel nothing,

Just so you can numb the pain.”

I don’t do this.

Writing is my way to numb the scars left behind by everyone I trusted

That’s why I write

It’s also why I have no friends

And that is why I feel so alone

And THAT is why I write

All these monsters within me, Are slowly being killed as I move my pencil across the paper

I don’t need any friends.

One

I only have one. And that’s all I need.

Let my words forever be my escape

As I watch myself slowly change from frowns

To smiles

It won’t be long before I drown out the feeling,

of being alone.

But for now I can’t stop asking myself

“Why do people not like me?”

I have demons.

So many FREAKING demons.

Always tearing me apart.

Piece by piece.

I thought there was no escape.

But a little light saved me.

That little light came in the form of writing.

When I'm writing,

The demons' jaws don't hurt as much.

The pain is bearable.

It's beautiful.

Even though my writing my not be that good,

It is mine.

And I love it.

Nobody will be able to take that from me.

Because that's a battle I'm not willing to lose.

So, listen, I write for some normal reasons, and some odd ones.

I write to escape into a fantasy land where no reality can reach me.

I write to let others know my perspective.

I write because one of my dreams is to change people's lives, to make an impact that will not be forgotten at the next turn of a page, or at the next trendy television show.

I write because I need to find some outlet so I don't explode from bottling it all up.

I write to feel like anything is possible.

Last, but not least;

I write to let out that hidden part of me that no one sees.

“Alcohol is poison.”

“If it’s poison, then why do you drink it?”

“Because there are things inside of me that I need to kill.”

I write because, similar to this scene in which Charlie Sheen from Two and a Half Men is (yes, incredibly intoxicated but) hitting rock bottom with self-deprecating humor, I am also leaning over the toilet of life, reacting on impulses yet contributing what I hope are illuminating sentences and tidbits of wisdom to an audience of viewers who will hopefully understand what I’m trying to say.

What Charlie Sheen is conveying in this scene is more than just a funny throw-away; to me, writing is something I come back to in order to kill the demons, to illuminate my addictions and faults, and to hope that someone out there will laugh, but also understand.

Every day, a little normalcy of silence is needed. You can sip a hot cup of coffee or tea, sitting on your porch or a favorite solitude place, reading a book or magazine, as you inhale and exhale the breezy fresh air in and out of your lungs, watching the sunrise or sunset, which the solace should give you relief in your chest.

Writing is like inhaling and exhaling air while watching the sun descend into the nightfall, or the shy moon slowly brightening the open blue sky while dancing with the shooting stars across the galaxy.

I write to soothe my sanity and empty the memory vault of insanity. The reason being, my mind is as sharp as a blade that works constantly throughout the day without any rest, which means my fight is with myself, how subconsciously furry words wage wars against me, wanting to roam and dance, flattening their flaming wings; when their rages comes cascading and pouring down like rainfall, my pen gives in and obliges their request, then lets them out of the door so they can roam or dance freely in daylights not remain caged in the pits of darkness inside my skull.

When the flood door of hell finally opens, they’d fly away freely, because their carnal hunger is fully satisfied, therefore, they’re forced to leave me alone to my own solace, so that I can softly and easily breathe in and out the fresh air.

Sometimes I wonder, why do I write? What is it that makes me want to put my figurative or literal pen to paper and form words and stories?

Sometimes, I have no clear answer. Is it because I love the thrill of creating new stories and characters and composing relatable emotional experiences? Is it because I crave the idea of other people feeling my heart and mind through my words and loving those words so much they laugh and cry over them? Is it the alluring image in my head of my name sitting at the top of the bestselling authors’ lists? Is it because writing is the way I communicate best with the world, so much so, that I feel I would suffocate if my hands were cut off or my pen was taken away? Is it that writing through my thoughts and analyzing and questions is how I come to know my own self, who I truly am under all the facades and appearances? Is it the fact that I simply can’t not write, even through the frequent drudgery and struggles of writer’s block or the self-revulsion over the pathetic excuse for writing that often comes out of my fingertips?

Maybe it’s a bit of all of those.

But no matter what the reason is, I just keep on doing it. Keep writing and writing and writing. Plow through the blockages, worries, frustrations, and the toxic apathy. Although I may never see my manuscripts published (but a fighting chance says I will), or experience the raves and reviews of loving fans (but I have faith I will someday), I still write. Even though I sometimes feel a panicky, gnawing futility in putting my thoughts and ideas down on paper, I still write. Despite the mysteries and inexplicable perplexities I perpetually encounter about myself and the world, I still write.

Somehow, some way, in all its messiness and craziness and unpredictability, I still love it. Writing has become a necessity in my life, in a bigger way than I thought possible, more than anything else that I value in this way.

This, I suppose, is why I write.

I write simply because I must. I was born to write.

When I die, and they take my organs to save another failing body, they will find that my heart is tattooed with ink.. in letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books. They will find that my heart is made of paper. That I am a story-collector by nature and press words into the fabric of my heart.

I know that we are all born with a longing to be a hero. To save people and illuminate truth. Sometimes, that heroism starts with saving yourself first, finding yourself. My own life is saved in writing. I keep going because of the warm, open comfort-place I find in empty pages. My notebook is the most loving listener. I write for self-discovery, 'genius' late-night ideas, to tell someone about my desperate longings, and to pour out much held-back tears. We all long to be fully known and fully loved.

There are those of us that have no one. No one to pour our hearts out to, no one to trust in, to share love with, to find safety in. And we struggle with voicing the very thing that is most dear to us- words themselves. To be alone with a notebook is our home and resting place. Our consolation and our listening ear.

Writing starts out as a little flickering candle. So soft and easily snuffed out. But a lot of powerful words can come from one small person... just as a lot of light is poured over darkness from one small candle. But that little flame grows. Mine has; I desperately crave my writing place. A realm to put my heart in where it fits just right. Someone who can love all of me, even the dark and ugly parts. And after time and development, when we are tumbled smooth like stones in the waves, our writing changes. That candle becomes a roaring wildfire that spreads uncontrollably. Our writing focus changes; we stop writing for self-discovery within ourselves, and begin the 'glorious outreach'. Our writing purpose transforms for changing and impacting other lives. Not just our own. That is an outward writer. They write to break people. To change their hearts and open their eyes.

To illuminate truth.

Then, we long to be a voice for the desires and truths that the world doesn't know how to put into words. For stories untold. We want to share heart, experience, and life.

Stories come from somewhere so deep, like music, it must be our souls. And we long to create things that mirror the feelings in our souls. Writing is that place where we are free to be who we really are, to create worlds out of nothing, to bring dreams and goodness and truth to life. And there are no limits. Writing gives power and freedom. It is a place where only our words exist, there is no validation needed. We have value and worth. We have truth.

I write to live. I write to breathe and laugh and to do what I was entirely meant to do. I was made for writing. My fingers were shaped to hold a pen and paper. My eyes were born for reading and refecting. My mouth was made to shape and taste words. My heart and mind were made to hold those words, to hold stories. My soul exists to seek out truth. My calling is to write and I don't dare rebel against that calling. Though I do believe 'destiny' and 'fate' are up to oneself to form or change, writing is the one predestined part of me that I would never rebel against.

I am absolutely terrified of it, because writing is a most difficult calling. And I am not good enough.

But when a person is made simply to write, they know it. They know it in the way their heart aches when they read beautifully-written words. The way natural things touch them so deeply. They know because even their dark and ugly memories have truth needing to be shared. They read books and feel something niggling at their edges, whispering, "this should be you, you should have written words like this." They feel jealousy and admiration at the accomplishments of other writers. They look at a rainy day and think, "this would look lovely written on paper". They bask in detail, they are listeners by nature.. looking for stories in every little thing. They value lives, knowing they were meant to be shared.

Writing is for giving and taking. In that way, it is love. It lasts forever, regardless of books aging and crumbling and burning. The written word has power above all else. Writing gives truths, ugly or beautiful. It reveals intentions. It provides rebirth. Writing is love. Though the world may not know it, it exists and thrives through writers.

To be a writer is to be a hero who values love and truth above all else. And that is a high calling.

I don’t create jewels.

I’m not a Midas of words,

It’s not gold I make.

•

I create from pain.

Every word is a part of me

And why I write is the cornerstone of my existence.

I write because I need to.

I write to survive.

I write to alleviate my existence from just breathing to living.

There may not be stars, too many flowers or fluffy clouds and joyous colours in my words.

But there is something beyond that, beyond just words in what I write.

The ink from my fingertips that graze the paper and etch the words is a river full of truth, zigzag lanes of dark noons and rainy nights.

Each drop is soaked in the realms of my heart, comes from somewhere deep inside the studio of my mind.

It’s a way of living.

I write to walk every step of my life,

One

by

One,

Away from the hurt and the bruises,

Towards myself.

I write because it is a journey into my soul.

~