I want to cease to exist.
And maybe you’ve read this many, many times here.
Because when I do, my mind works. It suddenly stitches words together. Into sentences. Into paragraphs. Into stories. Until I finally finish one.
Maybe writing has become both my defense and coping mechanism? I’m not sure. But it is the only thing that keeps me holding on to this very thin thread of hope.
Oh, you can’t. Here’s another idea to work on, my mind would usually say.
Writer’s block? I wish I had it. I never had it. I only pause because of the other things I had to do to sustain my living body.
But the ideas are there, lingering, whispering, Write it, write it, and stay alive.
I’m often scared. Maybe I’ve turned mad.