I write to imprison the thoughts which echo within my head like voices clashing against vast canyon walls, like a rebellious ball ricocheting off the solid courts, down unto paper.
These words; these words struggle to lift themselves from these white sheets but it is in vain because with my choice of writing utensil poised in hand I pin them down. In their captivity do I find freedom.
Much like what sticky paper is to flies my paper absords whatever it is that comes to mind. This white sheet before me; this is the magnet and my thoughts are powerless against its pull...until, until it is no longer so white but white merged with scribbbles, markings and half of me deposited unto it.
I write because writing is my savior and I lay my burdens down on this sheet of paper. When I write this sheet of paper does not chastise me, it does not push me away. It simply listens to the scratches I make on its surface. It feels the imprints and embraces my thoughts.
Writing is my drug. I list my symptoms down on paper and it prescribes me peace. A peace of mind. A piece of me.