i need to write; as much as everyone else need the air to breathe.

🧺

I wasn't, and ain't for once the feeler. I don't feel as often as my mother, I don't feel as much as her and her mother. Either I put it too far that I can't even reach for it back again or I was in the first place born in just this damn way.

I need to look up to my best of friend everytime anyone else put me in so-not-ease condition. I need to look at her face so then I know what should I say or do in behalf of be kind to other. Because maybe I wasn't kind. Because maybe everything I said out of mine — not over her mind — will do nothing but to hurt everyone. Because they know I'm not much of a feeler. Because they know I won't be able to tell and understand them. And there are so much more becauses to justify their damn assumptions. Becauses I can't even being offended to, because — once again — they know I'm not much of a feeler.

That being said that I may not be able to say I write in behalf of my feeling, just like the others. I might not write everything I ever feel. Otherwise I will write everything I’m thinking. I will write everything crossed my mind if my heart could not feel even a single thing. And I just will: write my assumption, my prediction, my based-on-logic every day doing. Everything it is possible to me to write to. All of that just so I could say I love to write too.

And even if love was a feeler’s to own, I’d convince everyone to believe that we would be in love with the imaginary things our mind made over. Because to imagine may be the best thing we, thinker do — and that it may be, eventually let me to steal the word love and be a lover. I love to write, I’m such a lover of it: now I may say it.

Other than everything else I need to do as a human being, to write is one of the important things. I may write for the sake of my sanity, yet I may too write for nothing particularly: that I just write.

I’m not much of a feeler. Nevertheless I was, since the very first time, a thinker. I think more than I feel. I think more that it is too much, too much that it is so often for me to find my head almost exploding, almost dying — or maybe it was already. I think too much that I no longer know how to live without it — until the day I know how to write. Until the day I may say that I love to write; that I’m such a lover of it.

I love to write, I’m such a lover of it: I’d say repeatedly.

I want to write everyday. Everyday until the day I completely lost the urge to stay. Until the day I eventually die. I want to write with my right hand until I need to do it with my left. I want to write until my hands are both trembling and lose their ability to simply take over the pen again. I want to write about you, about me, about any creatures and things that existed — that the world would be the only thing to finally stopped me to.

I might not write beautiful things every time I do. I might oftenly make the awful one too. I might be a thinker and bad at it too. But, trust me that my love for this magical thing is true. Trust me that I breathe and live it through. Trust me that as much as you need the air to breathe in every second of your life, I need to write too.