For periods of time I quit writing. The thought to never crosses my mind, I continue on with my daily activities (usually which include writing for academic purposes) and slowly, fits of anxiety and depression creep upon me, lightly coat my body with an eggy negativity and I go ever so softly into a coma of monotony and boredom. I rediscover myself in some sort of meditation, usually a time where I sit in one spot and listen to music thoughtlessly for a while; the bus, subway, a long car ride. Words strike me quickly, they are fleeting and flowing and unless I get them down in some definite sort of way I will lose a part of myself forever in the infinity of my mentality. The further the words get away from me, the more of myself they take with them.

For as long as I remember, I have been attracted to art and artists. I've dated numerous musicians, painters and poets, befriended actors, photographers, all people with a medium with which they express themselves. Always envious of their abilities, I wondered what my art was. I've always thought there was something in there. Of course, my friends and family have always encouraged me to write . I'd think, "yeah, but that's different". It wasn't until very recently, right now actually, that I've realized how important writing is to my sanity. A few weeks ago I read a list of things each 20 something year old should do. One of them stuck out, "turn your sadness into art". There is a letting go in pressing each key, a lightness in reading the words out loud from the computer screen. Each story, each fragment is a part of myself that I am releasing into the real world, unburdening my mind with every purge. Earnest Hemingway said, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."This seems to be some sort of theme to my life but for the first time, I am seeing it as a release, not a burden.

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