Necessary evil

You ask me why I write, and I question myself how can I not.

It’s not a reflex or a mood. The concept of my fingertips on keyboard surpasses definitions of passion, hobby or even love. I believe it’s just existence fed into every living cell of my body and soul.

Not much of it makes way on this blog, but I have a bag filled with draft papers with incomplete poems and random words. There’s a beautiful Dutch Tiles diary I own which has remained bare since years, because with age, I realized how permanent pen would be on those flawless pages. And permanent words hurt more than unwanted memories.

It’s like tying another weight at our already burdened feet. There’s no comeback after you’ve vomited all your feelings and thoughts out into this world, giving them recognition and breathing life into them.

Of loves you had and lusts you consumed, or the darkness that cripples you at times or the sins you dip in, your own words become your enemy.
For every breath you wish you couldn’t have taken in, these words haunt you like a faintly audible mobile dangling above your head every waking second.

And some then wonder why can’t we write about happiness and joy. You see, if that’s how simple it was, literature would have been a shit pile of rainbows which stank. Because for us, happiness is like a moment of sobriety when we are constantly drunk on the unfortunates of life to feed our soul. Souls that are irrevocably addicted to twenty six little things. Maybe that’s what makes it more beautiful.

And that’s the thing – you either get it down on paper or jump off the bridge. Writers are desperate people and if they stop being desperate, they stop being writers.
~Charles Bukowski