Because We Are Writers.

Its self explanatory, I had the urgency to identify what it was, well what it is for me, what that feeling might be for you guys, is it the same? I did it today, its incredibly rough, but help me where I need it, please.

oh and I know its awful to start a sentence with a conjunction, but 'We Are Writers' sounded kinda monumental, like it should be next to "THIS IS SPARTA!" but its not as courageous as that

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It’s the feeling. It’s the impulse, the purge. It’s what we do because it’s who we are.

It’s the clicking of joints in our fingers as we mercilessly strangle our pens or jab our fingers into the keyboard, to get it before its gone, those fleeting moments that you know deserve to be recorded somewhere, deserve to be put into the equation of words that best convey how you felt at that exact moment. It’s the urgency.

It’s the comfort. The characters that you spit out and hate, and the ones that will find you and annoy you until you put them somewhere, create somewhere for them to belong. The outlines that beg to be filled in. The pieces that don’t fit in anywhere, because even when you don’t fit in anywhere, you can make them fit.

Its blasting that song that you reach to set louder, but is already at its loudest and you’ll feel like your ears will start bleeding at any moment but its ok, because it’s helping. It’s aiding your cause. It’s the river from your ears to your eyes to the words you’re setting into history.

It’s the silence. The rare silence that scares you sometimes. Neutral. Stagnant. You sit and listen. You wait. You may not realize it but you’ve started a journey into the very thing that will get you anywhere in this world we find so difficult to interpret (but enjoy trying anyway) – yourself.

It’s the freedom; the freedom to do as we please, how we please, when we please, where we please. To create whatever we want. The freedom to hate it or love it. Creation, desecration formed in the nerves that link our brains to our fingers, the formation of worlds that haven’t even been thought of yet by anyone but you. You have made it all and it belongs to you.

It’s the devouring of time, because life is in time, and time devours all and you’ll soon realise that this is your life. When you disappear to the far corners of your space and return, you notice that you’ve been through a hundred years worth of travelling, creating and meeting new people, loving your people, hating your people and in essence, loving and hating yourself.

It’s the way you bustle to scribble, type, vomit it all out. How your day will start with the sun filling you up, and you taking your fill and developing it all until your sacrificing slave self feels completely cathartic. And when you’re done the stars will be there to replenish you. This is the best therapy you’ve ever had.

It’s who we are. It’s what we do. Because we are writers.