A writer is born

"That is it, that is what you need -

the darkness of the night to fill you up completely and absolutely;

the desperation of the night to reach the day,

which when it comes, makes you desperate again.

And though you try, you toss and turn, the words in your head can never be unheard, and so,

you write through the dawn of the night, to see if that may finally offer you respite.

I am the abyss today. I know now what a black hole feels like

As I collapse within myself,

consuming the void that exists around me and becoming one with it!

What is going to fill this emptiness?

Liquor? Food? Nothing worked, it is all so temporary…momentous

Believe me when I say I have tried it all and there seems to be no permanent cure, just fleeting addictions that help you get from one moment to another

At the end of it all you are back to this gnawing feeling that just doesn’t go away, doesn’t get silenced regardless of how hard you try and what you try. I see people and I wonder, how do they manage to go about this life so normally? Do they not feel it? Or, have they ignored it for so long that its presence goes unnoticed?

And, then I wonder and I am terrified that it’s me, me alone with the curse of this void that fills me up completely and utterly,

sparing no room to live,

none to even breathe!"

Writing to me is such a deeply private and personal thing. There is nothing like baring your soul to a piece of paper - all writing is derived from truth or the possibility of it. To me it's a sense of potential - for good and bad.

The one who wields the pen, wields the power.

Words have changed me, inspired me, healed me, and saved me. I think of myself as living proof of what strings of letters stitched together are capable of doing. A witch once told me words are spells and when a witch talks, you listen. I took her in and knew what she meant for words of the present, the future, and the past helped me both, escape reality and come to terms with it. I have known the sharp sting of a tongue and the sweet embrace of a sigh.

Everyone that writes, writes a truth that resonates at the least with one soul in some part of the world, even if it's their own - and that to me is the beauty of it. On days like the one where I wrote the piece in the beginning, when the cold outside matches the one in my heart which I feel so at home with; even with my piping hot cup of coffee and a mountain of blankets and cushions, this thought is what cradles me in warmth.

Words, I have found, help you feel at home when you are not there yet, they are solace when you can't find your own. Writers, poets, and anybody that puts thoughts to paper - to me - is indsipensable, for words and art outlive you - continuing to influence the air and the earth long after you've become them. They are a legacy, they are ancestry. I am saved by the words of so many that have passed, so many that are yet to come.

Some write because they can, few write for they want to, fewer are those that the words chose - it's not poem or prose, it's prophecy. A writer is born where the reader once lived.