I write to silence the incessant rambling of the voices both within my head and out.

See, these voices, they established themselves whilst I was in the throes of puberty,

plagued by thoughts of uncertainty and ineptitude.

These voices, each with its own distinct motive, formed collectively to destoy what little sanity my pubescent self had lain claim to.

You are stupid, and your hair sounds like teeth delving into a Granny Smith, and your skin isn't as clear as Bianca's, and your clothes don't cost as much. 

The voices knew I detested Granny Smiths because they were the most pretentious of all the apples, and I was unwaveringly jealous of Bianca because she was perfect in everyway. 

But, with pen in hand, always black because blue made a mockery of the seriousness and pencil lacked permenance, these voices swirled together to formulate beauty. 

They worked themselves into similes and metaphors,

sometimes because the complex is what draws people to listen,

others because they mirrored how my mind worked. 

And together, progressively, 

they formed my livelihood.

To not write, to not grant reprieve to the voices,

to not stand and stretch the inner speakings of mineself,

is not an option.

I write not of choice.

Choice irradicated itself long ago.

I write because without the words, the letters strung together in sweet dysfunction,

I would not be.

I write therefore I am, I am therefore I write.

this is not a matter of choice.