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I understand why you write.
It’s the thirst. I have it, just like you.
Picture yourself dragging your belly across the Gobi desert, fingers stretching and pulling your body inches toward hope, the hope of water. Your lips crack as you utter dry unfunny jokes that infect your mind. You just need to keep going; you can’t give in. You need to create the perfect page before you collapse again.
Writing is a lot like that.
One more word to fill one more sentence, to conclude one more paragraph, to complete one more piece of work.
There must be nothing worse than lacking imagination. I have had my challenges with it too, I can’t live another way, than this, with this rubber-band of a burden, it can sometimes make you snap.
It freaks me out, just thinking about it. I guess I’m also sorry for those with the never-ending page surgery, the passionate scribers, waking up at 3 am with the insane idea that these two words, when rhymed together, will somehow cure your insomnia and quiet your head from its Armageddon, restless fists balled in the air, just longing for rest.
I know, I know.
We’re stranded on this desert together, thirsty.
We’ll get to that oasis, one day.
Alexx
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