The Torture of Being a Writer

          

      Do I love writing? Yes, it's an seraphic escape from the demonic frenzy of the world, of life. There is something about letting all the thoughts and feelings that can't escape my mouth pour from my fingertips. Words are clay that I use to sculpt; my sculptures are are rarely seen by the chiseling eyes of outsiders. Too many of them are grotesque self portraits,  an honest depiction of the twisted mirror in which I see myself. I fear that if anyone saw the canvas that I once was, that is now painted over with blithe, animated characters, my suspicion, that I am an outcast, would be confirmed. Is there anything that can condemn a person from being a human that is deserving of love? It seems as though, if such a thing exists, it will be found in some poorly concealed crack in my fragile frame.
     I remember when I first started writing. Words just sprung into my head. I've never been an exceptionally talented writer, or a good writer at all, but I hope to someday truly deserve the title. I continue to write simply because I cannot stop. This is where the torture makes it advent. It bares an invisible chain of indomitable strength to bind you to words, to writing.. There is not freeing ones self from the trap of seeing, thinking and speaking as a writer. Sentences wrap around you and refuse to let go. You feel the pain of every morose stranger, see every detail of your surroundings. Worst of all, as a writer, I see another world, created by the broken bits of purity in this one. There is always a place where circumstance breaks the strain of monotonous days; new conversations sprout and grow free of the practiced phrases we speak every day simply because we have to.
       There is a place in my mind in which death has meaning and life is celebrated. Away from this place where vitality is sought out just to be destroyed. This place gives me the ability to do something right, to create something beautiful that cannot be razed. Words cannot be killed, murdered brutally in utter selfishness.
     Then I remember my shifting version of utopia can never exist.
     I see every flash of light, every shade of grey, every micro expression that flutters across and passing face. There is always an attack on my mind, take it all in, take it all in, that threatens my sanity. All of this is channeled into my writing. It is because of writing I began to see all of this.
   Writing a curse, and a love. It is torture, it is life.