Writing is therapeutic. It’s worked for me more than once in moments of weakness when my emotions cloud my judgment. It calms the nerves, balms the soul and cures the heart. It’s hopeful and energizing.
Writing flaws with ease. Easier than talking. Atleast your soul and flesh commune via the ink. The emptiness is filled in bits till you feel lighter and okay or a bit more than okay. Some write with pens and others write with hearts and soul. Then there’s us, who smear ink in regards to blood. The bleeding pen. With every word is a drop of blood on paper.
Writers are great people, they have mastered the art of eliminating the heart need there be, and have embraced the magic in silent screams. They do not cry when it gets heavy, they write!
The ink cries for them. It’s a therapy not mastered. Their vibe is always under the carpet. It’s too hard to unleash the hidden side of them. They believe in sitting behind closed doors when the sun shines and dancing in the rain when the storm comes. They find pleasure in chaos and comfort in pain. They connect the two and pen down a story to get coffee for. And mostly they are overthinkers but sadly they do not know when to stop.
It’s a disease like a leach. Stuck in them, lighting a fire that only solitude can beat. There is no way to stop when you start. No matter how hard you try to, your mind finds its way back there. There’s painful pleasure in painful stories written in good time. There’s comfort in the chaos goin on in the heart and mind. The ragging storm beneath the skin of a writer initiates ideas. Writers numb their wounds with words, they heal in bits like the chapters of a book. Step by step.