“So what? All writers are lunatics!” ― Cornelia Funke
Many spend their time laughing away their troubles, other sulk in theirs, while others make a film of them. Unlike me, I write away everything, letting my fingers cross over every letter, never once regretting what I’ve written. I either smile like a fool, or with a heavy heart. Some resemble the letters of a lovesick fool, others like a requiem for a lost loved one, then there are the burnt words of the leaden letter to an enemy.
Whatever the matter of the situation, it’s a canvas that’s been painted over with words. I have countless letters written to those whom will never read them, done so with an irregular prose. I write to lighten the burdens, to carry out a voice that shan’t ever be heard. I realize every writer is unique, for no one is the same. Some write because it’s interesting, others find it to be a blissful pastime, but, for others it’s an art, a condition they cannot rid of. I started out as one to pass the time, but now, I feel disease-ridden with writer’s syndrome, experiencing full-on what it is to work hard, to nip at your nails, tug at your hair, blink quickly, and diverge into your mind so deeply, yet you still can’t find the words to start or to conclude. It’s amazing, but sometimes it feels like such a stubborn task that won’t leave until it’s been dealt with.
It becomes a pastime well made before death, and you learn to seek nothing but the written world, it’s fantasies and surreal worlds hidden between ink and lead.You feign reality, distort and twist it to your own convenience. Your mind becomes heavy with dreams and ideas, some that you must jot down right away, for fear that you will lose your muse.
You live believing in the protagonists you write out, the places you created, the battles you’ve begun, the romances you’ve imagined.It all then comes down to this, you know you’re sick with it, and yet you don’t mind, because sickness is wonderful.