A writer is a dangerous thing to be when you grow up in a nowhere town, but a beautiful thing to be when you've lived as a nobody in that very nowhere.
A writer lives and breathes a dream, a writer learns and burns, lives and dies, goes up and comes at last crashing down from the fantastical sky to the dull and dispassionate world in which we, by birth, reside.
A writer can crack against the glare of the world and fall into The Ink, and many sink. The weird, however, we swim.
The Ink is to the weird, not a fluid, it's not a void. The Ink is a mania, grasping caffeine to build a world of steam and dreams, the Ink is Art, the Ink is in me and I am knee deep in the Ink.
I'm weird, I'm queer, and I will not be shamed for it.
I am deep in the ink.
I'm well into 60 thousand words already and I'll confess...
I am in the Ink too deep to sleep, only write for fear the ideas slip away, for fear the haphazard pin I put in my plot will fall loose and the whole of 60 or so thousand words in pieces all over will scatter again.
I am adrift and content to fish my tale from the dark waters of my mind. I am, for once with my writings, at peace.
The Ink is my obsession, the Ink is my salvation where the world spins wildly beyond my control. The Ink is my communion with the creativity I set aside, a chance to breathe again.
The Ink does not judge the writers... that we do ourselves.
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