a writer is always at some point self-inspired.the thoughts that resembles a whirlpool will come flooding out through words stitched with emotions a normal human being can never feel. writers, including myself, will cling to your frostbitten skin like leeches and circulate the blood back to your limbs.
however, after all the that high, a writer gets slammed back into reality with a force so destructive, it jumbles up his insides. The storm calms down, and nothingness engulfs the writer, like a drunk man engulfs his last bottle of liquor.
//when the run out of words, they will encircle themselves in an empty cocoon, tossing you out like a stale cigarette they always tuck between their teeth.//
the outstanding fact is that they always find a way out of it.. their own suffering is the way out of the self-constructed prison.
