many manhattans into it.

Oh it’s so quick. These glimpses of inspiration. These fleeting moments of creativity.

I cannot even look at the screen when I'm typing; I have to look at the keyboard because I'm self-taught and don’t know the formal way to type. i have to consider each key before i press it. i have to read over each word that is written.

Still, I type fast, but I have mastered the quick edit.

And thus, is my problem.

The edit.

When do I stop? When do I let myself just write without abandon? When will I lose this anxious self of mine, and when I lose it, will I lose the will to write?

Am I only meant to write?

That’s what she asked tonight. And that was a heavy question but when I hugged her I felt all bone. Still, she said she felt fat. I didn’t respond though, I tried to ignore it.

But the thing was she didn’t ask it, she stated it. That was a slip of the keyboard. That was a miscommunication between my brain and my hands and my emotion.

It’s a brutal bureaucracy, this process.

What she did is say is: You were put on this earth to write.

And from the look of this post, she had it wrong.