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?

I want you to stare at me.

I want you to think about me even when I’m not around.

I want you to grab my hand and stand to close to me. I want you to love my laugh and love my smile and love the way I use words that don’t quite fit my personality. I want you to see me and think of our life together.

I want that very badly.

But what I want is hardly ever what I get.

What I want is you, and you seem to be incomparably out of reach.

I guess I should give up on the wanting...

Can you ever even want if you've never been wanted?

Forever is

a funny word.

Forever in the past,

impossible to discern.

Forever in the future

equally dizzying.

But

you keep promising

forever.

And maybe I

should have

learned by now

to stop

taking your words

as truth.




But forever

seems so nice

with you.

Our heads are the most terrible place, you know.

And I’m glad that he cannot possibly exist there, not actually. If I try to fit him in my boxes, place him in my categories, I’ve removed every bit of his individuality.

Individuality is what makes us who we are. So if I remove the thing that makes him who he is, I’ve removed him entirely.

So it’s a paradox, you see.

The boy out there in the world cannot possibly exist in my head

yet I spend all my day thinking of him.

I’m thinking, rather, of the objectivity of who he is.

I like the idea of the object-boy — it’s simple, it makes sense.

The object-boy fits in all the right boxes, he slides right into my assumptions and conclusions.

He never has a care, he is perfect and is spotless and is happy and is robotic.

He is not real.

He cannot be real. And I’m so very happy, because perfect people tend to be a bore.

Please break out of your boxes.

I don’t want you to be an object in anyone’s mind.

I want you to be filled with light and ideas,

darkness and rage.

I want you to be filled with being

and with thinking

and with everything in between.

Because who you are does not belong in anyone’s box.

I may have been wrong before

our heads are not the most terrible place.

It is the boxes

created by our minds

for others

that seem to be Hell.

And I hope that you do not end up in someone else’s box.

I want you to transcend every box

you’ve ever been met with

because you are so much bigger

than anyone’s mind.

I stand to the side, watching. I scream and nothing comes out. My throat burns, my chest heaves. I gasp and cry, needing someone to hear. I try to run, try to somehow stop the invisible force from wrecking every last piece of me. Then I realize my arms are constricted, strapped forcibly to my body.

I am silent and I am in a straightjacket.

All I need to be is screaming and saving myself.

Because everything I’ve ever known tells me that you won’t come and save me.

But then again, didn’t I say everything I ever knew was being destroyed?