To yearn to be a writer is to capture those moments of infinite depth in which you find yourself lost inside of a chasm of glorious detail.
When the thud of your heart matches the bleating of your throat as you inhale your first cigarette of the day and you check yourself to the rhythm of your footsteps, wary of the overseer of your self-effacing doubts.
A writer has a depression. A depression to scale the peaks of dizzy happiness and endure the barren salt marshes of a harrowing self-loathing.
This depression will hit a writer in waves and can experience both extremes in the time taken to try on a new shirt or to catch a glimpse of their reflection in a shop window.