Why do I write?
Do I love that delicate soreness in my wrist after I’ve scrawled my thoughts on those once empty pages?
Or do I love manipulating the minds of my readers, controlling their thoughts and emotions with my wordplay?
Or is it that immortality of the written word- that, when my short, pitiful life ends, my essence will carry on in my stories and essays?
Or is it that sense of sanity, in the written word? Is it that ability to give my rapid, ricocheting thoughts some clarity?
I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it- all that I know is that when my heart hits the paper, when my bloody ink stains that parchment, I am consumed by a feeling like no other. I am whole- I step outside of my broken life, putting on a new self. Yet, that new self isn’t fictional. I don’t pretend to be one of my characters (heaven forbid- I put them through too much). I somehow become the real me, when I pick up my pen.