I Hate Writing.

I hate writing. If you haven’t been where I am right now, you aren’t a writer. 

If you haven’t hated writing, you aren’t a writer. 

You feel fucking lonely.                                                                                                                       You lock yourself up, away from the ones who care, because deep, deep down,           you don’t care. You want that bloody draft to evolve into the dream you’d dreamed a week before; that dream which hasn’t let you sleep ever since.

You don’t fall asleep.Your eyelids fucking collapse.They collapse of the weight of those dark circles your dream has dug below them. They collapse on stacks of distressed paper and depressing ash trays and notebooks only you understand the beginning and end of.

But. You don’t care.

You feel those words itching inside you. You want to take them out. Your body begs you to care. The little bones in your fingers are dying of holding ink, abusing nicotine and scratching out hair. Your head implodes with the craving for rest. Your muscles follow. Your limbs give up on you. Your back is pulled down.

But. You don’t care.

Your to-do list looks at you sternly. Responsibility slaps the back of your head. Time can’t take a pit-stop to remind you anything. You see it running faster. You wonder if and when will it finish this existential race. You know you need to keep up. You need to get yourself together.

But. You don’t care.

You pity your body. You pity your heart. You have been harsh on it. You still are. You keep exploiting and exposing it. You keep extracting from it. You know it’s fragile. You know it is out of control. It needs to breathe..

But. You don’t care.

You wish you did.

Because all this selfishness, all that obsession, quite often, gives you nothing.

You cut everybody and everything else out, for what?

A few too many words inked on paper?

Only you are going to feel them anyway.

You wished you loved doing something that left you with more time, space and sanity to care.

And then you ask yourself if you love writing at all.

The answer doesn’t matter.

You know it. There is nothing else that you really know.

This is all you can do. This is the only thing you have ever known. This is the only love you’ve ever let yourself fall into. You can’t look beyond it. You have an issue.

You will never be anything more than that silhouette in a corner of that room, burning inside of nicotine and caffeine, and tortured outside with isolation.

This hits you, sooner or later. It hits you that perhaps, you will let yourself love it all your life.

I don’t care. I am but only a writer.

And. 

I hate writing.

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