A writer's monologue for the commoner

The simplest burst of magnetic energy between the brain and the hands act like such greater anxiety had been built up inside, bundled with those incessant ticks that dangerously combined can make of you a writer.

No greater pain was ever felt than the intrinsic inability of professing on paper the crumbled scenarios and discussions conjured by the mind. The human being cognitive abilities are not enough-are never enough-to follow the quick methodological touch of insanity- oh, our feelings and the lack of them, how vital they are for the production.

It has never escaped a writer their emotions and the simultaneous lack of them. It’s a self-sabotage eternal route, a part of you dies and other ignites, always running back on time and getting stuck at the sweetest poison: nostalgia of the precocious child.

Yes, a dangerous game is played between the maintenance of barely any sanity and the encounter of complete agony, the apex of when hands become the marvelous instruments of eternal fluidity.

The need to write is so essential to existence that no longer life is possible without it. It’s undeniable that no commoner can sufficiently call themselves a writer without sacrificing a part of their being to do so.

Writers are shameless, dirty, loud. Even in the most delicate heavenly fairytales there’re miscellaneous elements of an ordinary fragile human experience decorated with a ribbon on top. 

At last, the requirements to be, as brilliant writers such as Clarice Lispector have previously described with their experiences, as said by her: “When I’m not writing, I’m dead. It’s when I start writing again that I truly come alive.”

If the willingness to commit is not within you, considering yourself a writer is one of the most condemned sins in a world full of mortal gods.