Confessions of a Writer

Why do I write,you ask?

I write because the words choking me,screaming and banging to be let out,need relief sometimes.

I write because I’m always thinking too much,always feeling too much.

I write because thoughts are crowding; they’re crammed within inches of each other in my brain and need to be wrung out.

There’s this feeling of completeness-that my mind, my pen and the paper are all one.

It’s like a confession.

It’s an outlet.

I bleed my secret thoughts in ink, before they seep in and poison my soul.

I collect jumbled scraps of musings and arrange them like a museum of moods.

I want to connect, make you feel what I’m feeling, take your hand and lead you through the maze of my mind.

I want to disconnect,pour my thoughts on paper and then cut myself off from them. Emotions, panting and grasping for comfort.

I write because nothing can grab your attention like words can. I talk about the smudge of kohl rimming my eyes, the mascara coating my lashes,the twists of my curls and the curve of my lips and you can almost picture me ,can’t you? If I talk about the soft crunch of damp earth,the glossy newness of washed leaves and the gentle splosh of raindrops and you can almost smell the petrichor, can’t you ?

I can broaden your view and make you grasp things you could never have comprehended otherwise. I can narrow down what you’re imagining to the tiniest splash of ink on parchment.

I write because the ink is like oxygen, and I’m gasping for breath.

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