Sometimes, the pen weighs heavier than the words it bleeds. Here, thoughts become boulders, too heavy to move on to paper: they will rip and shred the mind of all its preconceptions.

Here, the true writer shows devotion to the craft, and the craft becomes deliverance, saviour, the knife that bleeds the self, watering the parched brain with the life of the ego losing a war with itself.

The elimination of ego is egotistic, removing the cobwebs from one’s eyes….. the light will hurt, blind. Better this than the darkness of caves.

An urgency coupled with an unwillingness: this is what it , at times, seems. Suffocating in a bag of feathers, yet how leaden they sit on one’s chest.

Push the weights off, with the pen, against the paper, until your hands are raw. Only then can you hold yourself up, and breath, and flow. Mind in motion, the writer vindicated.


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