Why You Can’t Afford A Writing Break
Feel the words trudging out. Squeaking through oily pipes. Forcing their way through clogged neurons; unsure whispers without tone.
It’s the feeling of not knowing which word works where. Forgetting metaphors, unlike elephants’ memories.
The ideas chafe through the page, untranslated emotions. Angry, yet proud to come alive. Fingers in fury flying freed. Incoherent constructs, necessary sludge before the deluge we all once knew.
You write every day because the muscle only knows one thing — atrophy. Writing is how you make it forget its core form. Writing is how you hide its naked forgetfulness.
Writing is where its mind goes in distraction from its true nature — to observe life in silence.
You can’t afford a writing break like you can publishing. Can you afford a breathing break? Can you stop for too long before your heart screams in tandem with your bulging eyes?
Of course not.
Why then would you afford to remove a whisper from a voice that wasn’t? Why would you point a light into a blind man’s eyes?
Why would you do such a useless thing to writing voice?
Writing is breathing. Your lungs need the stories you tell to feel alive. The essence of your mind’s existence is to fight for meaning — to comprehend the world through art.
Art is life.
Writing is breathing.