Discombobulated Thoughts

Inspiring

This weight on my shoulders breaks my bones and splinters my spine

It's tremendous

This pulse in my mind is deafening and cacophonous

This ache in my soul is restless but oh so irreplaceable

I don't want to tell their stories, I need  to, they need to be heard by the world, by the universe

They grow lonesome and weary, they're tired of being kept bound for so long

And yet I can do nothing to ease their sorrow, for I have not the skill nor the motivation nor the mental fortitude to spill their blood with ink and let their spirits run wild

And it's horrid, it's sickening, someone else should have been given this unquenchable burden

No, I think that but I don't. These characters give me life, there is no me without them

They're feverish and untamed, pure representations of mankind at its lowest and highest

And they're also not, they're not simply the representations of one note emotions or puppets and ideologues. They're not the mere caricatures that some writers would seek to invoke, for they are much more real, boundless bundles of joy, dread, love, and hatred. They will  corrode the very skin of the paper their flesh is printed on, seep into the minds of the reader. They will live on for decades, it must be so. As time goes on I find more in them than actual people, ironic is it not, considering they're based off humankind and humans and people

I know that no one else can hold their gentle souls but me and this fills me with worry, at the same time it also elates me

One day I will bare the pen like a sword and strike at the paper. Until then, please, I'm begging with you, sleep in my mind

Ok?