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I write words and it’s like I don’t really mean them. When you write it’s meant to come from the heart, otherwise what’s the point. What’s the point in putting something down in words if it doesn’t mean anything. If it’s not dramatic enough to make an impact, important enough to change a life, beautiful enough to evoke tears of joy, tears of sorrow. That’s the scary thing, I yearn to write- no. Maybe it’s not writing I yearn for, but the approval- the perfect realisation that you have inspired someone, that someone has seen in to your mind and loves it. Really bloody loves it, loves you for what you can give them. That’s what it is, I think, it’s not writing I love but the opportunity to make someone realise that they’re not alone, someone else is just as bonkers as them and they have the guts to put it down on paper, and if I have the guts to do it maybe they’ll find the strength to be themselves too.


Writing is that tool, a handy device for people-pleasers to seek approval from the masses. Maybe that’s all it is for me, I’m not sure yet. I’m not sure what I’m searching for, what writing is to me. But whether I continue to use it as therapy or I discover a real passion for it, I believe in it more than anything. Writing can heal a heart, it can be your best friend, it’s humanity at it’s best- a solace for dreamers. A perfect retreat for the believers and nerd fighters. A secret society we always know we belong to when the world is cruel- a world that can be anything you want it to be.




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