Writing doesn’t set you free. Writing ties your thoughts to the world of the concrete. Gives people proof and reason to stab you in the back or right in your face. Nothing good ever came from writing. My happiness depends on writing. There’s nothing I want to do more than write. There’s nothing that scares me more than to write.
I want to go, I want to stay. I want to die and I want to live.
My life’s a tornado that starts to drag everything around it. Now you see a cow flying by. Except in my case it’s not a cow, it’s a cat. A thirsty cat because the water bowl that stayed empty for an unknown amount of time is oozing by too. Next to children’s copybooks and colonial history papers.
I want to write. But I’m scared of writing. I’m scared of me. Even more, I’m scared of what the world will be to me if I ever let out my true self. Because nothing good ever came out of the truth. Nothing but pain. People who are true suffer, and they are the ones that get to stand by and see how the masked and the cowards toast on their lies and laugh through their fake, golden smiles.