I find myself jealous of musicians and singers who perform for audiences. Those who from a distance don’t seem so filled with solitude. The solitude of a writer. I live in inside my head. It’s a place of sheer loneliness. All of these thoughts that are in my head yet are never shared in sounds. Instead, they are shared with an inanimate object. If I didn’t where would the writing come from?
It’s a craft I love so deeply, yet hurt from all at once. I find myself lost in thought even with others around. How to frame a sentence? What would I write on any given topic? Or how would I edit a piece of writing? There is never a moment I’m not thinking of words. There are those who will not understand this. This only builds on that solitude. How can you do this for pleasure? Isn’t it work?
It’s gut wrenching. Sometimes it’s as if my soul is the one being leaked onto the pages, not ink. But therein lies the beauty of it all. Whether people understand or not – it’s still there. That need is still there, and I thank God that it is. In all it’s solitude. I love it in every way possible, and I don’t want to think about life otherwise.