It's terrifying. Writing is terrifying. The way you get addicted with words and how they come about from the recesses of your mind, seemingly forming themselves according to a syntax understood only by the primitive language of the soul. You try and try again to find that one moment which made you write your very own masterpiece but unable to. And while looking for it, you stumble upon another thought that slithered its way to your conscious and then you realize, this is amazing. Writing is amazing. Seemingly inexplicable feeling make themselves concrete. Tangible. Through words that you did not even realize you knew. It's amazing how writing unravels you. How you get to face and deal with your deepest desires and uncontrollable fears. Your long-buried shame and never healed wounds. How it makes you bleed out all of your negative emotions which sometimes leaves you dazed and confused due to the sudden burst of sunlight and you even wonder if you've got some loose screws upstairs. It's amazing how you just bare your soul for the world to read (judge) but you can't even care because it is what you feel. You even console yourself with the thought that, they're just strangers. Stranger you get to share and connect with even more than the friends you surround yourself with. It's liberating.

But really terrifying. Writing drowns you in memories long buried and emotions long repressed and if not controlled, it pulls you under. Your broken record of the past plays over and over again until anger and pain and utter betrayal consumes you and trying but failing to swim to shallowed waters makes you give up. You surrender to the whirlpool of emotions starting to swirl within you.
You sink and you spend the whole day wrapped up in your sheets with just your pen, your notebooks, your thoughts and emotions. Unwilling to cross the boundary between your room and reality with a storm still raging within you. So you let the ink of your subconcious stain the once pristine pages. The ticking of the clock seems a useless reminder of the passing time because it never bothers you. It's just you and your poetry.
You start getting addicted with the feeling of being able to explain things for once, even if it is in the form of sappy and sometimes disturbing poetry. You crave for the release of pent up thoughts that never found the proper way from your heart, to your brain then your mouth. The usual stumbling words that leaves your lips now glides gracefully through the lines of the pages and it's heartbreakingly beautiful. That sometimes, you even isolate yourself to get under your "writing buzz".

It's (un)healthy but addicting.

Writing is an addiction I am very hesitant (unwilling) to give up.