What is writing to me?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Editorial and Opinion  |  House: Booksie Classic
well this is what writing is to me, wrapped up in a nutshell.

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Submitted: May 16, 2008

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Submitted: May 16, 2008



Writing for me is a psychological attempt to free myself.  My life seems as though it's nothing more than simple game of chess and my insignificance makes me a simple pawn.  For those of you aware of chess, the pawn serves a potential role but once it attempts to gain rank it is easily discarded and used as a stepping stone for someone or something seemingly stronger.  I have been told my many that my writing is excellent and worth publication, but I've come to a shocking realization that my writing does nothing but hurt others.  Sure I write and write masking my identity behinds bars of words, but their bars and gaps allow hurt and pain to get through.  I mean I have been blessed with this gift, but truthfully who am I to know if I use it to the potential in which it was given?  My writing hurts myself more than others.  I attempt to write to get over many feelings that loiter inside my head, and because of that I find it utterly impossible to reread my writings.  I mean I attempt to but half way through a majority of them I usually close the book.  The feeling I tried so hard to loose returns and once again I find myself attempting to forget the past.  However that's the thing, the past cannot be forgotten.  I used to live by a motto of what happens happened, what an amazing false attempt to cover up emotion.  There was only one person who no matter how many times I said I never cared assured me that I did.  And I seemingly waved it off thinking it to be nothing.  I label this gift I've been given as a nuisance, as I have been blessed with this curse.  This curse to have the only way to release this emotional choke hold is by writing, but my cure to writers block is gone, it carried on.  Can I ever write again?  I tend to admire the Phoenix, as with every death it raises from the ashes anew.  In attempting to become anew I stumbled upon an old writing of mine.  I had written this fourth grade, right when I realized what I was, I wrote three sentences scattered around a single sheet of paper.  The first one being of no importance now as it had already been checked off.  The second saying this "Your mind will bring the grave."  Sadly I am forced to check that off as my mind has forced me to truly become the greatest thing in which I fear; becoming truly emotionless.  I know not pain, I know not love, I know not anger, I know not hate, and I know nothing.  I feel nothing minus the beating heart and the pulsing of the blood through my veins.  The wrinkled page ending with the third; "What you have is your own" Sadly I check this off as well.  What I have, this writing, is nothing more than an attempt to regain my consciousness lost.  You believe what it is you believe, but writing is my attempt to become human again…

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