Hard to believe how much I’ve gathered just because it was there— a drawer full of keys to locks long gone, shoes I never wore, blankets for guests who never came. Sometimes I think I’d trade it all for a patch of sun and an empty grass. No shelves, no screen, no urgent blinking light. Just wind in the trees and the sound that follows when no one is trying to tell you anything. One day I’ll leave it all behind, quietly, like stepping out of a room. No receipt. No forwarding address. Just a small corner of sky and a grass that belongs to me.
Don’t write if you have to force it, if you sit there and squeeze out words like a dry sponge wrung out, if the sight of the page makes your stomach turn, if the thought of starting is already exhausting. Don’t write if you need someone to tell you it’s good, if your hands only move when applause is expected, if you write for the sake of being called a writer. Don’t write if it’s just a trick, just a hobby, just something to do between distractions. But— if the words hammer at your skull, if they crawl under your skin and won’t let you sleep, if they drag you out of bed and demand to be spilled, if they burn, if they ache, if silence would kill you faster than failure— then write. Write like your veins are filled with ink, like your bones are made of sentences, like the world would stop spinning if you stopped typing. Write when no one is watching. Write when they are. Write when it’s beautiful, when it’s ugly, when it’s the only thing that makes sense. And if none of that is true, if you’re waiting for a reason, for permission, for someone to say, “Yes, you should”— then don’t.
