Love and War

Two words that come to mind when I think about writing: love and war. It's my passion, it's what I love and want and NEED to do every single day, but it's a war I wage against myself to get the words to come out right and to say the things that I need to say in a way others will be able to understand. Victory only comes when the project is finished; giving up due to self-doubt makes loss bitter. The words get trapped on the tip of my tongue, stuck somewhere in the back of my brain or the furthest depths of my imagination, waiting for me to bring them to life. Sometimes they die before I get the chance to write them down, their inked bodies piled up inside my head, lying side by side like martyrs of a lost cause.

And the project, THE project, years of work and tears and waiting, must also wait until I am able to defend it myself; the final draft is finished but the mere prospect of publishing is a year away at least, more if (or rather when) everybody who reads it rejects it. I lack the permission I need to make my words reality. You will not understand my situation without proper context and I shall not enlighten you, but this is what haunts me (and perhaps this at least will be clear) : Will my project, THE PROJECT, die too before it gets its chance? There's a world inside my head, but I am trapped alone within its walls as long as no one else can see it.