I’m Crashing...

I don't understand why it hurts so much to do the one thing that once felt like breathing, like living.

Writing use to feel as if the clutter in my head was finding its order and lining up in a perfect line on my paper. Writing felt like the blood of my most terrifying monsters pouring from jars unto my pages as I slaughtered them in self-defense. To survive was to write, to write out the death of my demons before they swallowed me whole, to depict the monsters under my bed so others would know that they aren't the only ones who struggle to sleep.

Writing was flight and I'm afraid that I've crashed.