Words not to impress, or to undress, but to starve off annihilation. If you claim to be a writer, but writing isn’t your lifeblood, then give up. Go work in a bank, or paint pictures of fruit instead. It should be a matter of life and death every time you sit down and bleed out. If you go a single day without putting pen to paper, you should be on the verge of imploding. Writers that don’t write are like black holes- lifeless and doomed to forever rage in the abyss. The need- the hunger- to communicate is more than obsession; it’s akin to breathing. If it doesn’t happen, then death soon holds sway. Creation. Sex. Each letter of the alphabet, tools to nail every emotion and passion that ever flowed through your veins. Hope. Fear. The smile on a loved ones face. The scent of their flesh as you laid together looking up at the stars one summer’s evening. Humans as beauty, and humans as evil. Life is a kiss. Life is a knife fight. The science of feeling. The love of what it is to exist as a spec of dust that knows what it is to fear tomorrow. Each word is holy- a testament to how much it means to succeed when failure seems so imminent. There should be an ocean of wonder in every sentence. Anything less just won’t do. Those that don’t write have never experienced what it feels like to surf the waves that ride so readily between joy and despair. Those that have never lost themselves in the magic of self-expression have never lived. Storytelling as a stairway that bypasses logic. Writing to fuel the need to escape from the misery of a synthetic world that grows colder by the day. Words as bullets, and words as relics of a journey into the heart of madness.