I am born to write

When I write, I dream. And when I dream, I have a reason to live.

I was once advised by an acquaintance to loosen up and forget writing for a bit. (Apparently, my current job is stressing me out way too much.) He said I should stop thinking of writing and think of other things instead. He also asked why I value writing that much.

In my drowsy half-asleep state I remember telling him six words: Writing is another half of me. Obviously, I never talked to him again.

Anyone who does not write would not understand the sensation of putting ideas into words and writing them down in phrases, sentences that perfectly capture the emotion, the scene, the intensity of the thought.

Writing is like smoking. One breathes it, let the bitterness flow through the system, extract the satisfaction it provides, then let it go in wisps of perfect lines and flowing curves.

Taking it in then letting go. Each breathe bringing one deeper and deeper to the point of addiction -- dependence.

Writing is not merely a passion for me. It is something deeper, something I cannot describe despite all the words I know. And I like to keep it at that.