I Am Truly, Madly, Passionately in Love with Writing

I love to write just the way I love myself and the people around me. More often than not I think a lot and talk less that's why I always wish I got a pen and a pad of paper, or a pencil and a handy notepad, or a blinking cursor and a blank virtual sheet with me, in my backpack. So I can always write anything that comes within the noisy inner workings of my mind.

I love to write, truly. It serves as my creative outlet, a worthwhile activity that allows me to express every emotion I feel which in a way relieves my tension and hurt that I get in everyday living in this cruel world. It's a tool - very unrelenting tool which every people rely on every word said and written. A very effective tool to blurt out all my rants, frustrations, grievances, happiness and all - everything that clogs my brain.

I love to write, madly. I, more often than not write from my depression. Which I believe I can write the saddest words, ever. The creative juices naturally ooze out from my brain when I am in state of deep melancholy. At those times I really feel that I am more human and I love the feeling of being so in touch to myself, my broken and shattered self. Call me masochist, or whatever you want to describe it, but for me, emotional pain is a wonderful sensation. When there’s pain, there’s hope, and there’s a crazy blog post. That is why if you are reading this please take note of this: don’t ever hurt me or merely a writer because you never know they will make their hurt into something so beautiful that you will never leave the guilt down.

I love to write, passionately. There are thousands of stories and the like in my sea of thoughts. A world opens as soon as I start typing or printing the letters — in ink, in erasable pencil marks, or in moody computer-typed letters. I begin to venture on my own Alice’s burrow, my Platform 9 and 3/4, my closet to Inception. I travel in a hidden universe, with only myself and my lovely muse — writing. This serves as my miniature whenever I'm all alone.

So now I got a pen and a pad of paper. Or merely a pencil and a handy notepad. Or maybe, a blinking cursor and a blank virtual sheet.

I write on, then. Write until I tire away my eyes and hands, until I cast away all the happiness and pain I've come to experience, until I yawn and the melody of my words in my head will lull me to slumber. Rest, and then get back to writing again.

I write as if writing were my only life itself, my number one companion, and probably, as always, more.