That one simple word can encompass many feelings.
In my opinion—writing is like that little kid who picks up a knife. He thinks it’s a toy, so he stabs himself in the gut (thinking it is mere play).
Instead of joy, he screams in agony as the blood soaks his favorite pair of shoes.
He’s rushed to the hospital and stabilized. But that child will never look at knives the same—he will be wary and cautious.
The act of writing is to…
Get a needle and poke one of your fingers.
As the blood disappears, you cut more, you cut deeper. Don’t stop.
It hurts, but it feels so good to see your blood. To know that it exists, to be capable of feeling something. To know that it was born from you.
As it heals, cut elsewhere. Keep gouging into yourself until every pore, every muscle fiber is shredded—until there is no part of you left untouched.
I don’t partake in or suggest physically harming oneself…
However, creating stories is how I first began to cut.
It started with daydreams—just harmless entertainment that costs little. Then progressed to writing poetry then short stories.
Writing them down seemed so simple, so relaxed like a child just wanting to play.
Many agree writing is good for a person. I for one would rather let myself bleed ink from a pen than blood from a knife.
But writing brings other things…
When you write, you have to make yourself understand. When you write, you have to delve into yourself in order to bring your worlds alive.
The best lies have a core of truth after-all.
When you write, you must feel everything.
Writing isn’t just release, it’s your own personal purgatory—a hurt that feels so good it’s addicting.
So you cut and cut until every stroke becomes instinctive, natural. It no longer takes thought: just the ability to let your life-force ebb into words.