Too much writing can do harm.

Writing is a drug.

You know how it all starts. First you try writing for fun to see what comes out. Then you start your journal and it turns out you can’t do without writing — that’s the way you spill things out and sort them out which temporarily relieves inner turbulences. It’s good for you.

And then you are high on that. It is comforting, so you won’t stop. You keep chewing on yourself, bringing testimonials it helps you. But to be honest, what you do is spend a huge pile of time thinking about yourself. And you start to notice (not out loud) that it gets you nowhere further after the milestone of sorting things out was achieved.

Time is cold and cruel. It wears us out quickly and stays indifferent to living things’ fears. We are supposed to get the best of time we have. But you won’t stop reflecting on yourself so real life goes by with those who are in it. Sure, you are planning something for real life through writing, and that is comforting enough even without getting it done. Or maybe you start something but never finish. Like I do.

Writing becomes the trap.
A substitution for action and isolation from living.

Sure thing, this drug can be more than that. We could heal each other with words. Writing itself is great. For me excessive writing is harmful unless you break out of the vicious circle of “yourselfness” and redirect it to the world. So now my line is “if you write excessively, bring it on, create something for the world!” Or…

Ideas and stories untold, caged for author’s own pleasing, will take revenge on its keeper.