Posted by: evanescence May 3, 2014
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I like calling myself a writer. I am in love with the torments and anguishes of being a writer. I don’t know if its normal to feel slightly insane but I believe insanity is a writer’s greatest gift because if I am a writer as I like to think I am, whatever I have wrote comes from the insanity I so happily am addicted to. You can oppose and argue if I am wrong but I don’t think writers are completely sane, not at least when they are writing or thinking about writing.
What else do I like about being a writer except the occasional doses of insanity and shorter durations of sanity? It’s the agony I feel by the rush of thoughts and words in my mind that doesn’t make any sense and that creates the beginnings or ends of so many possible stories but doesn’t give me one whole story. This feeling almost suffocates, agonizes, releases and handicaps me all at the same time. I am tormented by words. They do not come when I ask them to. They have got me in chains and I am pulled whenever they desire which I think should be the other way around. And when they do desire to come, they bring me this anxiety and itch which I cannot get rid of until I have poured every single one of them in my screen and out from my system. Sometimes, they decide to torment me more and stay hidden from me for days. These are the days I dread the most. I fear they may never come back and this fear drives me crazy. I must be a masochist because I am irrevocably and unconditionally in love with words and every torment they decide to come with.
One of the joys of being a writer is the way everything from trees to buildings to people unfolds in front of you like stories or poems or some beautiful lines extracted from a book. To you, everybody and everything is paper scribbled with words and that is the most beautiful of imaginations. But the greatest joy of writing is not these torments, not the agonizing wait, not these imaginations and not the high you get from insanity and even not the jumping from one skin to next.The greatest joy is when you touch the soul of another human being and make them feel the same thing you felt while writing. Nothing compares to that joy. It gives you validity and you can be stupid enough to believe that maybe you are of some worth after all. And I am so thankful for all those who have given me this joy.
I am a writer and thus many things; I am a collection of incomplete stories, of contradictory ideas, of characters, of lies and of brutal honesties. Writing is my safe place. It’s my escape from unexpressed emotions, it’s a non complaining lover at whom I aim my fury and frustrations , it’s my religion I am devote too and most of all it’s a kind stranger that I can offer nothing but confusion and still get peace of mind. Lastly, I thank you all for tolerating up to this sentence and kindly excuse me for blabbering all these and claiming myself as a writer. Obnoxious as it may seem but I cannot be sorry for being so (though I am sorry for this) as I am too much in love with being a writer. The breaking of this delusion would break my heart.
What else do I like about being a writer except the occasional doses of insanity and shorter durations of sanity? It’s the agony I feel by the rush of thoughts and words in my mind that doesn’t make any sense and that creates the beginnings or ends of so many possible stories but doesn’t give me one whole story. This feeling almost suffocates, agonizes, releases and handicaps me all at the same time. I am tormented by words. They do not come when I ask them to. They have got me in chains and I am pulled whenever they desire which I think should be the other way around. And when they do desire to come, they bring me this anxiety and itch which I cannot get rid of until I have poured every single one of them in my screen and out from my system. Sometimes, they decide to torment me more and stay hidden from me for days. These are the days I dread the most. I fear they may never come back and this fear drives me crazy. I must be a masochist because I am irrevocably and unconditionally in love with words and every torment they decide to come with.
One of the joys of being a writer is the way everything from trees to buildings to people unfolds in front of you like stories or poems or some beautiful lines extracted from a book. To you, everybody and everything is paper scribbled with words and that is the most beautiful of imaginations. But the greatest joy of writing is not these torments, not the agonizing wait, not these imaginations and not the high you get from insanity and even not the jumping from one skin to next.The greatest joy is when you touch the soul of another human being and make them feel the same thing you felt while writing. Nothing compares to that joy. It gives you validity and you can be stupid enough to believe that maybe you are of some worth after all. And I am so thankful for all those who have given me this joy.
I am a writer and thus many things; I am a collection of incomplete stories, of contradictory ideas, of characters, of lies and of brutal honesties. Writing is my safe place. It’s my escape from unexpressed emotions, it’s a non complaining lover at whom I aim my fury and frustrations , it’s my religion I am devote too and most of all it’s a kind stranger that I can offer nothing but confusion and still get peace of mind. Lastly, I thank you all for tolerating up to this sentence and kindly excuse me for blabbering all these and claiming myself as a writer. Obnoxious as it may seem but I cannot be sorry for being so (though I am sorry for this) as I am too much in love with being a writer. The breaking of this delusion would break my heart.