Work Text
Writing. That’s what it was; yes, I get it now. Making stories. My pen is like an extension of my body, my keyboard the same for my mind. Alliterations and personification help me as ideas dance dramatically and drop to my feet, forgotten just as I sit down to write them. It’s frustrating, but often from those ideas I can make better things, right? That’s why I’m okay with it. Plus, when I’m writing not everything’s my fault. I don’t have to apologize for telling her to leave me alone after she hit me. I’m not required to be calm or else I’ll be a bad person. Fiction. That’s what I can use. Whether I’m reading, writing, listening to music, or anything in between, I can escape. It’s over. The swirling, tantalizing taunts of people I thought I could trust out of sight… and, thankfully, if I’m writing, out of mind. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to explode. Like I’m doing too much, and people are right when they say I should take a break.