Writing is not for the weak. It is not to be deleted but shared. Share it with yourself, read it over and over again until its twisted words embed in your goddamn memory, until you beg for the word crawling into your mind to stop; to gush out, to eject, to expel. Till the time the feelings pierce you and you’re crying and then smiling and then crying again but you’re still crying. Till the time you’re numb and you want it to stop. You want to stop the vicarious liability of your writing. But continue to live it.
Writing is not for the weak. It demands brevity of the soul; it demands fortitude of the spirit and the grit of the mind. Weak do not write, they die, they crumble they do not have the courage to tell their own story. The important write their histories. The important tell the tales, spin the words; they trap you, entangle you, and choke you. The important don’t stop.
So, be important. Don’t stop. Don’t let writing stop you. Let it glide you. Glide you to old memories, feelings, to the past. Make that past your history. Fill it with your own thoughts, thoughts you only dared to think.
Writing is not for the weak. The weak don’t write their history. The weak die. They rest in their graves.