Now to contrast yesterday’s post, I actually love being an author. There must be a reason why I keep coming back to it despite it being so hated by me. I absolutely adore my ability to think up entirely new worlds filled with conflicts that I created. I adore my ability to be a able to put in words, what most others can’t even hope to rationalize.
I love writing because it is the only respite that I get from all the troubles of life. In fact, I started feeling better after writing yesterday’s post despite the fact that the reason for me feeling down was writing itself.
I truly want other people to experience the high I get when I write. It is something that may possibly feel better than any drug in this world. It is my drug, it has surely ruined my life but at the same time has saved it.
Writing is the only thing that gives purpose to my life and I would never give it up for anything in life. Even if I have to die in obscurity, I will gladly keep writing. Even if I have to give up on a few opportunities, I will gladly give them up because of it. Even if I have to stay alone forever, I wouldn’t care.
I will keep writing until I draw my last breath.