Words have saved me.

When you write without being a writer.

Rebels. Writers are rebels. They unscrupulously let words dissolve, slide through their fingers.

Writers let the world sink right into them.

They are fearless, restless. Condemned to make nothingness, absolute. They stay in totality, that mystic moment when light is obscured.

Writing clarifies. It makes reality more tangible yet more abstract, and harder to grasp. 

The frailty of life. 

The blinking of an eye, the translucent shield of the human body.

Fierce.

Drained.

I’m savouring these words, right here, right now. It is the pleasure, the delight in knowing that words are floating back to life. 

It is the vacant look, that something which triggers the compulsive writing; the need to say what I think; a state of extreme feebleness, 

yet the most perfect moment of creation.

Words saved me.

They saved me from myself and protected me from others.

They came back, they do so at times, rarely.  They come in pangs of guilt, stabs of excitment, twinges of conscience, and regrets. 

When reality doesn’t resemble one’s fiction.