Writing, always writing. Can’t stop. Gotta keep going.
They tell me put the pen to the paper, fingers to the typewriter/screen/keyboard. Can’t keep track. Not allowed to stop. Don’t want to stop. Can’t make something of myself if I don’t try. Write with passion. Write with fear. Write with emotion. Something will eventually come. Something will make them happy. Once.
And will I be free?
No. I think not.
They’ll clamor for more, always judging me by my last, never happy with my first. And I’ll find myself asking, “Who Am I?” Can’t stop. Won’t stop. No room for pause. Pause is weakness. Routine is key. Self affirmation. Self promotion. Self sacrifice. A ball of emotion wrapped up in words. You feel what I feel. I look through the screen/page/paper. Can’t focus. Can’t stop. Running on fumes. Fumes of what? What is my fuel. What is substance. Who does it matter to? Can we feel without reference? Can we feel without being told how to feel? Tell me how to feel.
I’ve fallen. From grace. I’m on the top. In my mind. Only in my mind. I’ll be on top. And then what? Will it be enough? Will I know? What is enough?
Who are you?