"I don't think I am fit to be a writer, yet I can't stop thinking about writing, its either I write or think of writing." Those are symptoms of Hypergraphia disease, or so I like to consider it as a form of illness.
To simplify the reality of it, I should ask myself: Why do I want to write, what do I want to write about and how do I write it. The rest will fall in place. But let's assume I got that figured out, and still do nothing. Who is fighting at the back of my head? Oh
I own a mushroom head, and when I speak, my voice echoes inside artificial arteries designed specifically with a writer's block valve. It always fights the speed of an adrenaline rush, keeping me human enough but leaving my bones sore. Do you know that google says that mushrooms are more closely related to humans than plants? That's why I went to the library yesterday, and burned every book with the word mushroom in it, and then went and fell asleep in my mother's garden of lilacs.
I have a theory that if I actually write with another person it would be encouraging and frightening at the same time. Encouraging because you get to share a piece of your mind with another entity, and frightening because you get to share a piece of your mind with another entity.
They say that the most difficult part is starting, and I agree. I also think the most difficult part is stitching one end of a thought with another carefully, not missing a single strand, and gluing it with the right form of emotion that strand demands. Oh, and off course the part where you keep re-reading the earlier sentence you wrote over a hundred times to make sure you got it all right, and it's funny because it starts to lose its meaning, so you start over.
Do you like horror movies? Have you ever entered a hospital and felt the need to hide yourself before the walls find a reason for you to stay? Have you ever been scared that hugs don't make a sound and there's a reason behind that? That's another drastic theory of mine, it proposes that if one is intimidated by one self, it could fuel the urge to jump off the edge to a wordy sea.
The extent one can reach being engulfed by their own terror triggers an uncontrollable desire of ironically, controlling the distress they themselves have created. Excuse my possibly irrational bizarre thought patterns, I am aware that they do not intersect yours, and they probably won't, but that's exactly why I am writing.
I was diagnosed with hypergraphia, this condition will never lose its poetic appeal. And my survival kit consists of smothering myself in metaphors. The intensity of this gravitational force guts a hole in my brain, and it is climactic when attempting to write, really write.
