Sometimes my brain needs release. Too many thoughts, too many what ifs, too many buts and theories and just too many of everything. And that's when I turn to ink on paper. It's like opening the tap to a shaken coke bottle. But sometimes writing is too hard. The need to write finds a great opponent in the lack of words. And trying to write feels the way Harry felt when he had to write 'I must not tell lies' with his own blood. His scars show on the outside mine are etched on the inside. It's like a missile has been released in my skull and it is bumping into anything it finds creating havoc in my little brain. And the only way to stop it is the only way I can't. Words. There are so many words in the amazing English language. Yet when in need, they elude me. Instead even the simplest sentence is an effort. I become a blabbing fool. And movies and books are of no use at such time. And talking, well I'd risk uncovering every little bone I have hidden in the dark corners of my closet. So I wait, like epileptics wait for their seizure to be over.
And I wonder many times, what it would be like to be normal. Without this need to write, this addiction to literature.
But then again I'd be nothing without my words.