I’ve realized long ago that I can only ever write about despair and desperation and loneliness, and maybe that’s why I’ll never be content. Content is lazy mornings and sunshine swirling through the windowpanes. Content is a slow smile and dust spinning in the air, but I can’t live with just content.

I need fire and ice and passion, I need pain and I need scars and I need sadness that threatens to consume the world in its magnitude because I feel lost without it. I can’t live with just content because if I want to be a writer, I can never be content. I will always want to be more, to hurt and to love and to be broken and put back together again because in the end, that’s what writing is. 

Writing is letting yourself shatter against all the edges of the world, and trusting that there will be some beauty in the pieces.


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