The words in my head,
the voices, they were quiet at first. They blew through my mind like
tumbleweeds on an almost windless night. They didn’t disrupt things.
But then they grew louder and larger and started to damage my
soul.
They had to be given life, and by life, I mean voice. And
that is why I write.
Because the voices never die. Writing is a lonely profession,
but the inside of a writer’s mind is filled with the most vivid colors, people
with a million stories unto themselves; it’s the playground that never sleeps.
But God, sometimes, I wish it would. This is what I was
talking about earlier—the haunting and begging for attention, waking me in the
middle of the night like a small child for a drink of water. The words are
restless, and so I am restless.
I breathe. Listen. And let you drink this healing balm from
my aching hands.
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