I Write To Aid My Loss Of Control

I write because my mind is a blur of words and sounds and profanities that I can not put into the world through anything else but paper. If I were to say things out loud, they would get messed up; smashed together, turned into something they’re not. When my pen hits paper, there’s no refuting my logic. It’s there, and it’s real. Just as the sun rises every morning, and sets every night.

I write because with every word I can blow you away, or reduce you to tears, tear you apart and put you back together just as I would a puzzle. Because that’s the only choice I’ve ever had. Being micromanaged from birth until death makes a person starve for any kind of control. Cutting open my heart until I bleed all over the page is the only control I know, anymore. Puking up all of my dreams, fears, and fantasies, arranging them so they look beautiful, sad, lonely, and happy all at once, the flurry of words in my brain being portrayed so eloquently. Seeing my brain splattered onto a page is the most beautiful and settling thing I can bring myself to do…

I write because I have to show them wrong. I have to prove that I’m not as dumb as they make me sound. I have to prove that I’m more than just a face in the crowd, I have to show them they’re wrong. Because just as the sun rises and sets every day, I look at myself in the mirror and know that I’m nothing special, and that’s okay. Because I can cut open my heart and still live, I can throw up and have it be beautiful, because my beauty may not be skin deep like the rest of the nit-wits around, but I am beautiful because my imperfections can be turned into artwork.

I write not because I’m asked to, but because I want to. I write because it sets me apart from the girls and boys who have so quickly conformed. That’s not who I am, I will not conform. I will take the dark clouds that have surrounded me and condense them so they are water. I will drink the clouds and spit them out, creating my own beautiful and perfect rainbow. I will sit upon the rainbow and feel the happiness flood throughout my body, because I’m allowed. Everybody has their ways to concoct happiness, and this is mine. Writing is mine.

I write not because it’s a choice, but because I have to. Because my heart can not stop beating without me dying, my kidneys can not simply say “I’m done” with out my body going into shock. It is a part of me, just as my arm is attached to my body. It flows through my veins just as blood does, and it is one of the only things in my life that can make me happy. It inspires me to not literally cut open my heart, or throw up my dinner, but to keep going on because nobody can tell me to stop. Because I have the chance to prove those suckers wrong! Because I don’t have to be prodded and poked, bribed to do my writing. Because it’s something that I can finally find control in, unlike my unsteady voice. I write because I may not be able to speak coherently sometimes, but I can always count on my words to do me justice.

I write because of love. My love for the craft, and the love for myself. I love myself so I will write, and it will not fail me, because it loves me.