I do not write for applause or praise.
I do not write for you or you.
I write to release the words that flutter in my skull. How annoying the constant thought can be until it is released as an afterthought. I feel the weight lift from my mind as relief expands into the empty crevices of my thought. Empty, but not for long as I long for the next sentence of my heart. I dream of word strings and impossible things. Of magical pens in stone and endings waiting to be owned. My writing hand is my drinking hand as it writes again. My hand knows the reason for what I do even before I attempt to do it. Without the creation of words there is no world to me. There is simply a memory and that memory belongs to someone else.