As a writer, I often feel misunderstood. I’m content sitting in a park all day, watching people and making observations. I sometimes walk around in cemeteries and write down names that sounds pretty to me. I hold on to my characters and will defend them with all my being, even if they’re the supposed antagonist. Even the “bad guys” are a reflection of my deepest thoughts.
Writing feels like I’m screaming into the vast abyss, and sometimes, there might not be anyone to hear. Either way, I can feel myself floating in space in a world that is completely my own.
Writing is standing on top of the world,
screaming and knowing you may never be heard.
you’re yelling and yelling from the bottom of your heart,
watching your conscious slowly fall apart.
Think of a typical writer.
They’re one a hell of a fighter.
Sitting by the window in an artsy coffee shop,
the world around them seems to stop.
A writer must see inside everyone that passes.
They have to write characters from all social classes.
A doctor, a mom, your elderly next-door neighbor.
A writer can lay it all down on paper.
They get lost in their work, their planet, their story,
Basking in the light of their chosen one’s glory.
The dark void inside of them starts to diminish;
it’ll only be satisfied if they can finish.
Featured Image Courtesy of Andrew Neel on Unsplash
