I am a writer

I am a writer. A writer.
For in the beginning was the word. And I breathe the word.

I eat, I shit, I fuck — but not really. In reality, I write. I am a true writer.

I write without discipline, sometimes not for months, even years, but the words are always with me and in me and around me.

I can be with my family in thought, my friends, my hobbies, my work, my lover — but my heart is always elsewhere.

My heart spills out in chains of letters without meaning, yet truer than my mother’s joy when I left her womb.

I write about sorrow, even melancholy. I write as if I were depressed, but I burn with life.
My pen shall be the sun that devours the earth to return it to its origin — the scorching nothingness where I find my words.

I write effortlessly because I make no effort. And even when I don’t write, I am still writing, for the words are swelling inside me.

I don’t need to be read or heard. I only need to place word after word — or better still, all the words at once.
For they are my words, and more than mine: they are everything. Everything that matters.

It’s almost unbearable that I have to breathe, to eat, to speak, to brush my teeth twice a day.

But I bear it. Because I don’t care. Because I forgive people for not realizing that the words that stand in the middle of life are the only ones you never hear.

It doesn’t really matter all that much. I need nothing and no one to write myself into being.

So let me squander my life in peace and joy.
Let me be among people, love them and hate them, and let them do the same.
For even if I never put another word to paper, I will, as I always have, breathe in words, eat in words, fuck in words, love in words, and die in words.