I guess writing is a bit like loving somebody.
You dig deep within yourself, you scrape the walls of your heart, and you hold out your hands, eyes down, with an offering. Knowing well, that there are others who have more to offer than your mere scraps, more than your anxious hands can hold. But just praying that this one time, maybe, you could create something beautiful, with pen & paper... or with a glance and a smile.
I sometimes feel this pressure.
Seeing these articulate individuals weave words and phrases in such a way that it would send echoes down your spine. Seeing these benevolent lovers, hand in hand, smiling into each other's tomorrow. If I am being honest, well, I've felt like in order to be appreciated, like them, I need to write, like them, I need to love like them. But that isn't the way. That isn't being a writer. That is not how you love.
I wake up sometimes with this complete utter clarity.
Like maybe it makes sense now, here, today. Maybe on this day, my optimism will breath truth into my writing, allowing me to create something genuine. But that same spirit lingers in the shadow, still, beckoning me. That shadow of recognition, that pressure to be accepted, literarily. That pressure to be loved, romantically.
Sometimes pen sinks into paper with perfect precision.
Sometimes it stains that page.
Sometimes we love people with every piece of our cracked heart.
Sometimes they don't feel the same.
Writing is a bit like loving.