You wouldn’t believe if I told you how many times I sat down to try and write this text.

Somehow it is incredibly hard. There is always something, always someone trying to grasp for my attention. I wonder how many times I have been made completely useless. How many times I just couldn’t put my mind to anything I wanted to speak about, and nothing came out, nothing was real.

I simply can’t tell you of how many times these words failed my fingers. How many times my pen stroke down my notebooks. How many times the only words that came out were simple thoughts, phrases. I can’t tell you how many times my mind raced and raced and raced over these thoughts, and how hard it was to simply put them out. To make something new, to make something worthwhile.

Then suddenly I started typing. It didn’t matter what I typed. I just did. I wrote down, I set my imagination free. I decided to take it out of the box, to free the birds off their cage. To give wings to my thoughts, to my heart.

To my anxiety.

Anxiety trapped me down on my chair. On my notebook. On my life. I just couldn’t be who I was. I just couldn’t do, because otherwise I would think. I realized that when I think, I don’t do. That writing is just more and more about doing than of really thinking. That it is useless to try and think and do something, but it becomes fruitful to put your thoughts on paper, and try to sort out all the mess.

It is a big mess.

My head is a big mess.

It is really hard to understand why is it that those synapses connect. To understand why I think what I think when I think of pineapples and pens. To understand the relation between fruits and shinigamis. Of shinigamis and people, of people and relationships, of relationships and a household, a household and a piece of paper.

This is why I write: I don’t write to make sense.

I don’t write for anyone to read. I write to clear my mind. I write to feel my soul. I write to understand I can’t understand.

I wasn’t made to think, I was made to live, and thinking is but a part of living, living is but a part of thinking, and writing is…

writing is just writing.

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