If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.
My ex-boyfriend once said, “Nagba-blog ka nanaman? Di ka ba nagsasawa?“
How about no?
Looky here: I cannot draw, paint, sculpt, dance, make music. Writing is the only creative outlet available to me. Writing is my emotional release, my brief reprieve from the insanity of this world.
When I’m writing, my mind is clear. I can focus as I reread every word, editing carefully, making sure that every paragraph is well-written, that everything is structured and coherent, that no word is misspelled.
When I’m writing, I know exactly what to say, and how to say it.
When I’m writing, every pent-up emotion—misery, anger, happiness—is laid out in the open, exposed, so I can examine it and find out exactly what the fuck is wrong with me.
As of this moment, I have 26 drafts, and I am not going to stop until I finish them all.
The day I stop writing will be the day I stop [over]thinking, analyzing, doing, and feeling. And you can quote me on that.