Writing Is A Breathing, Living Thing, And That’s All I Want

What if all I want to do is write. I want people to know how I feel and for them to understand me. All of these ideas in my head fade when the ink hits the surface of my leather journal. Wouldn’t it be easier to write my darkest secrets? Because I have no one to listen to me. But why should they, it’s not their responsibility to help me work through my problems, and I am capable of doing that myself. So instead I’ll just write and not worry about what they think. I’ll try.

But the thoughts are all gone, nothing left to write about that hasn’t been written before. Of course there are so many ideas in my head, but they all fade. Gone, into nothingness, with only their echo remaining. I want you to know me, but how can I even begin to describe myself. How can I tell you through my writing.

I want to write about this burning passion that is in my heart, but I can’t find the right words. I want everyone to know about the fire that is slowly consuming my thoughts and my lust to have everything in life and more. Where can you even find the words to express the excruciating pain that it causes, but also the overwhelming joy of having something you can love so much?

It’s not a person I love, nor a thing. Instead it’s an idea. The feeling of freedom as you hear the click of the airplane’s wheels as it prepares to land. The way it slams on the ground and how you can feel the pilot flooring the brake. My feelings rush and slam in this same way. I can feel my heart race and flood with emotions as I try to stop it. I try to put out the raging fire but it’s useless. Secretly I love it. I love feeling so much. It kills me, but brings me life. There are no words to describe it, which kills me even more.