Why I write
I write because these thoughts cannot be consumed by the bile inside my stomach. They persist like stones, impervious to my attempts to mull them over and digest them. Not even whiskey wears away at them; they fester and seep into my blood. Left alone, they become cancer and rot away my soul. If I can't purge them from my body, I'll die the slow, retail death of the man caught in a rushing current, tired of simply not-dying.
Writing allows me to trick the water, to hold off that cold and pointless death one hour more.
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tseulik) wrote,
