Earlier today a friend said that people who write must have some kind of mental problem to a certain extent. Which does make sense.
Suppressed thoughts, emotions and actions canned up inside for years, finally able to see the light of day through strokes of a pen or taps on the keyboard.
From frantic typo-laden rants to well-thought obscure idioms, every word pouring out of our minds are attempts to open the window of our soul. Every sentence a long and deep breath inhaled, our eyes blinded by the piercing light that is the chance of self expression that means so much because we know it don’t come easy. It never does.