“You write!” she said. “Little does she know,” I thought.

I’ve been here. I’ve been through these spurts of writing, letting it flow through me. When it cannot, I force it out of myself for my own good.

Those memories are blurry. I don’t remember writing anything in my childhood. I remember listening, having distinct thoughts, and moments I wish I weren’t a part of.

Things changed when I started reading a lot. The first spurt I had was when I discovered Dostoevsky. I remember not being able to wait in excitement while reading a page so that I could put the book down and start writing about it.

I wrote mindlessly about people I love, what makes me hate them, addictions, sorrow, and ungratefulness. I wrote to put my mind at ease.

This time, it’s different. I write so I don’t lose my sanity. I write in nostalgia, allowing myself to dive into a never-ending fall while I write. Memories of her make me want to end it all, to fall into that dilemma again. I arrive at something and go on another spurt of writing.

Yes, I will write her letters. Yes, I will write her hateful messages. Yes, I will write tiny paragraphs about how the rain reminds me of her. Yes, I will write a novel about her hands.

I’ll pour my heart into her pen so that every inked word she writes smells of me.

I don’t write to achieve anything. I don’t write to please anyone. I know this spurt will be over soon as it always ends abruptly. That’s the beauty of these spurts; I never know when they’ll arrive. I love them so much that I show mercy on the fact that they’re over suddenly.

I write because I can. I write because one day I wouldn’t be able to.

For what is a man without thinking, and what is a man without those thoughts on paper.