Why Write?

I struggle to write around the block. Each year, it grew bigger until I can no longer see the page. What’s left to write anyway?

It’s heavy, this block. And wide. Every page I turn, I can’t shove this block off of me.

It’s draining most of the time. As I stare into the void of the page, of this block, it drains my energy. It feeds on me. It takes too much to offer the words, so I set the pen down and go lay down. But it’s not that kind of tired.

It’s another day of thwarted writing. One day…one day I’ll capture these universes on the page.

Some days they whisper. When I have the energy and the time, that’s when the voices get loud. They’re right, aren’t they? Who would want to see these universes anyway? It’s discombobulating, nonsensical foolishness. Why would you even share that—admit that on the page? No one should know. They’ll realize something is deeply disturbing about you—just look at how they reacted to this.

There’s no point in capturing this feeling. You’ll never build the skill for writing at this rate anyway.

So why bother with writing?

Why do I bother with writing?

I write with pen because the keyboard is too mechanical to capture the essence of a feeling.

Feeling. I write to feel.

I’m so disconnected from my body. Years spent learning how to move like the other humans, stay grounded in this flesh, listen to it over the loud voices around me. It’s only these past few years that I have felt emotionally reactive, points in my body lighting up, signaling. I’ve never known these points before. I’m learning to be human all over again.

The problem with 10 years of being an aspiring writer is the 10 years of gunk that builds on the pen.

I thought it was a time and energy issue. It’s not.

It’s a self-worth issue.

I don’t value my own words.