In the end,
Who tells me who I am?
he tells me that it's him,
and she tells me that it's her.
And this entitlement is surely not universal.

We must decide ourselves.
Horrifically.
But how can I possibly be blind to all of this noise?
When the streets are filled with final blueprints
Of how my life will play out?

For all of us
The words placed upon us slither around our arteries
And up to our brains.
They insert venom into the soul gleefully.
And the poison is ubiquitous.
It's terribly malicious.
Because we must decide.
Who speaks fact
and who fiction.

In the end,
I must decide who I am.
I must dig into my heart with a rusty shovel and push.
My only wish
is that I don't hate what emerges from this abyss.

Write because you need to. Because something must be said. Write because you have no way of speaking what’s in your head. Write because no one can feel the way that you feel — no one can see the world like you. Write because perspective is important and there are too few perspectives in the world. Write because there’s not enough time in the day. Write because you don’t know who to talk to. Write because your head and your heart know you better than any person ever will. Write because there are people out there that don’t have to opportunity to write. Because there’s not much going on. Write because you forget what it’s like to feel something. Write because you feel too much of everything. Write solely for the purpose of appreciating the beauty of words. Write because someday you won’t remember how anymore. Write because there’s not much to say, but there’s so much to be written. Write because you’re full of original thought, or because you’ve never had one in your life. Write because the best world comes from the type of people who put their ideas on paper. Write because you sometimes are scared of the way that you think, but you’ve never been scared of a computer screen. Write because feeling something is RIGHT, and putting words to it is beautiful. Because there’s not enough people in the world taking advantage of this opportunity. Write because there’s nothing in the world that you love more. Write because you’re good at it and you’re bad at it, and sometimes you’re everything in between. Write because the spaghetti that is your brain just can’t sort itself out anymore. Write because you care about something. Write because there are important and poignant things in your life, and you need to appreciate them. Write because one day you will not be the same person and this will reflect on who you have become. Write because there are so many beautiful people in the world and not enough of them have been documented. Write because there is so much of you, so overwhelmingly much, that you can’t keep it in anymore. Write because ideas will get buried. Write because emotion is more powerful than anything in the world. Write because your intentions are so different than every other human being. Write because music has moved you. Write because there’s no guarantee of tomorrow. Write because who you are is so much of what you think, and so often what you neglect to say. Write because there are days when you won’t know who you are anymore and this might give you a slim idea. Write because, no matter what happens to you, no one can take away your brain. Write because spilling your guts to people just isn’t practical. Write because you have a purpose. Write because you DON’T have everything figured out, and you won’t any time soon. Write because there is such a need in this great big world for people who aren’t afraid to write.


Write because you need to, more than anything in the world. Write.

I’m not me anymore. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do, can’t be. I am still, and silent, and sad. So achingly, horrifyingly sad. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts at all, because I’m absolutely numb. I curl up and try to keep all of everything inside of me from falling apart. I don’t even want to open my eyes.

Why is winter my kryptonite?

I almost don’t like relating to other people.

Because that means they have the same thoughts I do.
If I’m so different, how can that be?

But maybe I’m not different.
I’m not different at all.

If I’m not different and I don’t think or feel differently,
then what is this terrible feeling that I don’t belong?

What if the way I feel is wrong?

What if everything is too strong — or alternatively, too weak?

I feel too much of everything I think. I hope.

I never want to not feel.

Sometimes there are days when I don’t feel much. But even on those days I ache to feel something.

That’s the scary part. That I possess the potential to be blank. To not have thoughts or ideas, passions or desires.

That terrifies me.

**Odd that my biggest fear is something I so often encounter in the minds of everyone I meet.

Doesn’t it seem odd
that your actions today
effect the rest of my forever?