Some say it's a blessing. Some think it's a curse. When ideas deliberately choose you to be their vessel, there's no denying, no complaining.
You just HAVE TO write.
Okay, so your body is aching, yearning, longing for a restful slumber. Yet your mind is actively trying to link ideas and plots, characters and settings. Your body is telling you to go and get some sleep, but your brain says, hell, no! Why sleep when you can write?
Sometimes I wish I have no need to sleep. So I can endlessly lose myself in the worlds of my own creation (or could it be that they already exist? In a way they are luring me, beckoning me to stay?).
I am consumed by the fire of creativity. Yet like a magnificent phoenix, everytime I feel like I'm about to die, I feel refreshed. Reborn. Purified.
Maybe I have died zillion of times before. Yet I'm still here.
I guess that's what it takes to be a writer. I choose to be one. But many times, I feel like somebody, somewhere out there, has marked me as the chosen one.
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