Nowadays, it kills me to write.
I am so worked up throughout the week that I hardly have time to ponder over, unplug, tinker ideas and even to read that I somehow fear my creativity muscle is going through a ridiculous atrophy.
Stupid questions like — what for? why is it necessary for you to fucking suffer and push the fuck out of yourself to write? is it even worth it? How is writing helping you become a better person, live a better life? Are you even asking yourself right questions when it comes to your seemingly over-emphasized literary indulgence? Do you seriously give a fuck? Are your materials any good? Have you been improving? Are you even growing at all? Has your taste in nitpicking words, orchestrate ideas and write sentences and paragraphs polished? Are you seriously in love with a pain and the hope these blank screen renders? Why the fattest fuck on earth do you even write?
Because for sure, writing is not easy.
And, writing is neither sexy or anywhere close to being flamboyantly interesting.
It’s absolutely a fucking hemorrhoid in the ass.
Despite, seriously, I don’t have a one answer to explain my habituated writing kata but what I know for real is whenever I’ve been alone all by myself, just to write — I love being in this side of life! I write to live at peace, live full, learn better. I write to grow.