I have a few, no actually more than a few stories to tell. They come to me spontaneously, often when I have no access to neither pen nor paper. And the words just flow, as if I was dictating the story to myself and it's these stories that have kept me on the brink of insanity, bordering but not quite over. It's time for these stories to be set free, although i'm not so sure how, when or where. I just hope that it will be soon.
Why am I writing? Is it because I think i'll spontaneously combust if I don't? Is it because people have stopped listening to me speak? I'm writing because I should, because I don't know what else to do. I've been groomed to write if not to talk, for the rest of my life.
It's my fate. My mother speaks on end, she's speaking now, to me, and it's this excess of words that have propelled me to collect stories and to continue fabricating story after story, a sort of mental speaking to myself.
What am I writing for? I should just go to bed.
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