I Want to Write

I want to write.

 

I want to write. 

I really just want to write. 

 

Like I don’t know what it is about writing except that same old cliché: 

something inside of me wants me to do it, it wants me to write. 

 

Here’s the funny thing though, I am not sure what to write. 

How I should write. 

Why should I write it [ this way ] and not MYYY WAYYY ya know.

 

Frustrating it is,

but frustratingly enough, 

I still just really want to write. It’s funnier when you know my feeling. That feeling before writing, where I have a hundred ideas to write about. At least a couple of ways to go about its hows. And surely something nice like you know steamed rice, cooking for the why bits, right? 

 

“Hey man, let’s try and be realistic. It can’t be that hard to write.”

Sure. I mean when I think about it, it feels like I have done and experienced harder things. That 2km hike was hard. 

Running 10km felt hard. 

And so was confessing to that girl.

Or growing up with a mom, who loves you and cares about you, and just so always happens to be ready to be◼︎t you up too. 

 

Okay now. 

 

Back to writing. 

 

Inhaaaale and exhaaaaale. 

How do we do it? 

Just type down some keys on a blank screen or pen stuff down on a piece of paper. 

“Sounds easy”

Suit yourself myself! 

 

Intermission.

 

It just hit me. 

 

I have been doing this writing thing my whole life! 

I remember learning to write that letter “A”. Okay maybe not so clearly, but definitely not so RIGIDLY. 

 

I am now out writing more than 2000 words academic essays every d-mn semester, d-mn. 

I am texting WRITING hundreds of words away every day, 

Email drafting, and even note taking. 

 

Writing is now practically part of “AG’s top 10 things to do every day” 

With of course my top 9 being: breathing, eating, sleeping, thinking…..  

 

F**K. 

 

Then, WHAT THE F■ ■ ■  IS THE PROBLEM? 

 

Every time I sit to write, strangely enough my heartbeat sounds louder. 

My mind goes all whooshy washy. 

And yo believe it or not. 

The same two hands I have been writing with my whole life pretend to be like my most distant relatives. 

Strangers. 

Oscar worthy acting alright. It f-cking hurts. A lot. 

 

Is writing just writing? 

A force fuelled and guided by itself? 

Or is it an experience produced by the outcomes of many other outcomes? 

 

It’s not just about typing quickly or slowly, or moving a pen more elegantly or inelegantly. 

It’s f-cking so much more. 

And so, when YOU ask me, how am I still not done writing?

I hate to tell you that it’s not writing I struggle with. 

It’s me.

 

The other different parts of me, the other different ways of me, the thoughts, the sensitivity, the mentality, the abilities to just express and materialise those same d-mn words I be sensing inside of me. 

 

I want to stop writing this. 

 

My head hurts. I don’t even know what or who I am writing this for anymore. 

 

I don’t want to write.