No one ever tells you what it means to be a writer. I don’t think people choose it, they need to write like they need to breathe. Filling your mind with words and pages from young ages it’s a kaleidoscope of different lives, of different stories and people. These words are what fills you, they bring you up and take you down. They can make you drown, gasp for air, for reality, for comfort. But at the end of the day there is nothing but you and your words. Living different lives in every book you pick up, if you’re like me, these turn into your own experiences, they fuel your pain and your voids. Real life never quite measures up.

No one tells you about the pain. The nights you spend aching. The nights when words aren’t enough. So you write, you turn to your mind to explain what is inside you. Your words turn up the inner caves of your heart, where things go to grow or to die. Windstorms start twisting what you thought you knew. People should never love writers. They can turn your words into anything. Someone comes close to touching my heart and I wince, I run. Writers belong to themselves, it is a curse. The thin line between thinking too much and ignorance. I watch, I wait. I turn myself off completely when I need to. I end up with a bottle of whiskey in my hand, or high high high. Boys to pass the time. Boys to distract from my mind.

My parents told me not to drink, not to do drugs, not to believe in boys with empty eyes and mischeivous smiles. My parents told me to stay away from what could hurt me, they told me to stay away from everything but myself. They never warned me not to write.