“Why do you write?”


Several people would look me in the eye and say those words incredulously. Perhaps they will ask, what made me write in the first place, and what made me enjoy pouring my thought and feelings on the paper.

If only they know, that writing, for me, is the same as hurting myself.

Maybe, maybe when everything that I have ever known were slipping into evanescence– when they were slowly crawling into oblivion, I carved my darkest thoughts and feelings deep into my skin back then. So now, all I have to do is write, and write, and write, and write them all until my red ink bleeds out.

Yes, it hurts. But, maybe it’s the only thing that’s real– the only thing that’s permanent– the only thing that stays– the only thing that’s so brutally honest.

When my happiness was, and still is not.





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