Another Attempt At Understanding...

As a writer, there is nothing more frustrating then not being able to express what I'm feeling or thinking. Writer's Block is my worst enemy. But I'm proud and lucky enough to say that I don't often suffer from Writer's Block. I suffer from almost constant cases of Writer's Apathy, the lethargic, listless feel of not wanting or needing to write, but not Writer's Block. Well, at least not usually.

There is one topic, one idea that no matter how I try, the words never seem to come out right. They never seem to express the full depth of my love, devotion and need for it. No, its not anime or Harry bleeding Potter. It's writing. Ironic right? That the one thing that I can't ever seem to properly express myself about, is the very thing I'm doing. Gotta love Irony! She's a cruel yet twistedly humorous mistress.

But a persistent little fool is what I am and I refuse to give up. I'm trying one last time, giving it another go, at trying to make you all understand why I often choose to spend my days in front of a monitor then with you.

I don't want to write. Its not something I do for fun or cause its easy. Writing kills me with each and every word I write. Its sucks out the passion and emotion inside of me and directs it towards worlds unknown that I'll never experience. But if I'm being honest, writing is the only reason I'm still alive to this day.

My life has been blessed in many ways. I live in a good town, have a decent family, hilariously crazy friends and attend a great college. Yes, in some ways I've been lucky, though in others I have not. Since I was young, I've been lost in this mist; this suffocating, life eating, soul crippling mist that hangs around me, obscuring my view of the world. Its gotten thinner at times, then thicker then ever after. But it has never, not once, gone away. I feel its presence even in my happiest moments, reminding me of what I truly am: scarred.

It is this scarring, this mist that truly eats away at me. It thickens, trying to separate me from the world around me, trying to suck me in. The mist clouds my vision, making everything before me dark, leaving me with nothing to see by the memories I rather forget. And inside, all the mist I breathe in freezes me, making me shiver even in the hottest weather, cause inside I'm cold as hell is warm. In my worst, I can't breathe, can't remember others exist, for all I feel is my pain, cold and deadly in the mist.

That's where writing comes in. In this mist, so cold, dark and life killing, writing is the knight sent to save me. Each word is a stab at the mist, making it thinner so that I can breathe. When the mist amplifies my pain, the words alleviate the pressure. When the mist magnifies my memories, taking my imagination to new heights, the words relieve the tension.

Simply put, I write to live. Nothing else in this world makes me feel the way words do. I like to dance, I enjoy singing and technical theatre is a great pass time. But none of these can do for me what a creative set of words can. Those activities try to block out the mist, make me forget it exists. Writing on the other hand, creates a light to combat the ever growing darkness. It provides me with literate oxygen to breathe in. Writing expresses what I can't ever seem to say and helps me sort through the thoughts always building in my mind.

I hate it most times, 'cause I'm a slave to my muse, the little pixie blighter. Aurora has a nasty habit of getting ideas when I'm trying to sleep, or while I'm in the middle of stores. But she never seems to want to write when I have the time or desire to.

I seem so ungrateful don't I? I should be happy that I've been blessed with this ability. I should be thankful that I have a means to combat my enemy. And I am. No matter how I complain or whine, writing is the love of my life. I adore it, need it to live each day. I'm nothing without these words. I have no idea how I would live if I someday could no longer write. If Aurora ever left me all alone to be sucked in by the mist, my life would end. I wouldn't last more then a week if I didn't have words to rely on, when the mist gets too thick to see through or breathe in.

I've been rambling. That's all this is, a giant ramble in an attempt to express why my best friend is a pen and paper and words dominate my soul. Want to know the worst part of this ramble? I STILL don't feel like I properly expressed why I write. This feels like a small fraction of the overall love and need I have for shedding ink on paper. So my Writer's Block is intact. Another try, another failure to make you all see why even on my deathbed, I'll want nothing more then to write.

Oh well, I get it. I understand why my muse and I spend hours slaving away to create planes of existence alternate yet still my own. You may not understand, but I do. And like the persistent girl I am, I'll never stop trying to help you all get it too. One day you'll see, even if its only once I'm dead, why words are my soul.