When I write, I put a little bit of myself into the words.
I don't write for the favorites, or the comments, or the pageviews. I write because it's simply me, writing. There's a certain magic in words.
Some people write for the attention. Some people write for fun. I can understand that. But when I write, something tugs in my mind and flows out of my fingertips, to be locked in the syllables on the page. That's why I'm terrified to delete anything I write.
When I die, I suppose I won't really be dead – my soul will still be here, trapped inside my words. I wish I could write for pleasure, I really do. But I have this animalistic instinct, this primal sense that makes me write. It squeezes words out of my head and hands, taking myself along with it.
Is it wrong to say I enjoy it? My writing controls me, not the other way around. The words are there before my fingers are, the eloquent little beasts. Even know, I can feel a little bit of my soul slinking out my fingertips into these passages, embedding themselves in the pages. These letters fly by in blurs. They are like birds: wild, unbidden, and flying. I cannot control them.
Sometimes, my writing is a placid lake – to be fetched from when needed, fishing creativity out of the depths. But more often than not, it's a current of rapidly tumbling words that rush and screech, eager to get out of my head.
It comes when I least expect it, too: whenever I sit down, my fingers twitch and itch in their hurry to find the words. I've learned to control it by now, though. I can smile and laugh and hug and sit quietly when needed, but the urge is simply there.
When I try to hold it in, it builds up and then my mind implodes, sending words fumbling for cover inside my head. It's dumbfounding. I have no way to explain the way my imagination works, and even if I could, I wouldn't tell you.
As I said before, there's a certain magic in writing. There is no perfection in the pieces I write: in fact, far from perfection. In their hurry to be on the page, the words stumble and choke across my passages. They rush by too fast for me to capture.
When I die, I wonder if the bit of my soul I put into here will be returned to me.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
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Tuesday, January 31, 2012
when I write...
When I write, I put a little bit of myself into the words.
I don't write for the favorites, or the comments, or the pageviews. I write because it's simply me, writing. There's a certain magic in words.
Some people write for the attention. Some people write for fun. I can understand that. But when I write, something tugs in my mind and flows out of my fingertips, to be locked in the syllables on the page. That's why I'm terrified to delete anything I write.
When I die, I suppose I won't really be dead – my soul will still be here, trapped inside my words. I wish I could write for pleasure, I really do. But I have this animalistic instinct, this primal sense that makes me write. It squeezes words out of my head and hands, taking myself along with it.
Is it wrong to say I enjoy it? My writing controls me, not the other way around. The words are there before my fingers are, the eloquent little beasts. Even know, I can feel a little bit of my soul slinking out my fingertips into these passages, embedding themselves in the pages. These letters fly by in blurs. They are like birds: wild, unbidden, and flying. I cannot control them.
Sometimes, my writing is a placid lake – to be fetched from when needed, fishing creativity out of the depths. But more often than not, it's a current of rapidly tumbling words that rush and screech, eager to get out of my head.
It comes when I least expect it, too: whenever I sit down, my fingers twitch and itch in their hurry to find the words. I've learned to control it by now, though. I can smile and laugh and hug and sit quietly when needed, but the urge is simply there.
When I try to hold it in, it builds up and then my mind implodes, sending words fumbling for cover inside my head. It's dumbfounding. I have no way to explain the way my imagination works, and even if I could, I wouldn't tell you.
As I said before, there's a certain magic in writing. There is no perfection in the pieces I write: in fact, far from perfection. In their hurry to be on the page, the words stumble and choke across my passages. They rush by too fast for me to capture.
When I die, I wonder if the bit of my soul I put into here will be returned to me.
I don't write for the favorites, or the comments, or the pageviews. I write because it's simply me, writing. There's a certain magic in words.
Some people write for the attention. Some people write for fun. I can understand that. But when I write, something tugs in my mind and flows out of my fingertips, to be locked in the syllables on the page. That's why I'm terrified to delete anything I write.
When I die, I suppose I won't really be dead – my soul will still be here, trapped inside my words. I wish I could write for pleasure, I really do. But I have this animalistic instinct, this primal sense that makes me write. It squeezes words out of my head and hands, taking myself along with it.
Is it wrong to say I enjoy it? My writing controls me, not the other way around. The words are there before my fingers are, the eloquent little beasts. Even know, I can feel a little bit of my soul slinking out my fingertips into these passages, embedding themselves in the pages. These letters fly by in blurs. They are like birds: wild, unbidden, and flying. I cannot control them.
Sometimes, my writing is a placid lake – to be fetched from when needed, fishing creativity out of the depths. But more often than not, it's a current of rapidly tumbling words that rush and screech, eager to get out of my head.
It comes when I least expect it, too: whenever I sit down, my fingers twitch and itch in their hurry to find the words. I've learned to control it by now, though. I can smile and laugh and hug and sit quietly when needed, but the urge is simply there.
When I try to hold it in, it builds up and then my mind implodes, sending words fumbling for cover inside my head. It's dumbfounding. I have no way to explain the way my imagination works, and even if I could, I wouldn't tell you.
As I said before, there's a certain magic in writing. There is no perfection in the pieces I write: in fact, far from perfection. In their hurry to be on the page, the words stumble and choke across my passages. They rush by too fast for me to capture.
When I die, I wonder if the bit of my soul I put into here will be returned to me.
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