What do i really want to write?

The topic itself sounds so messed up, just like the tangled mess of my thoughts which I have been trying to unwind before my mind’s eye since I first might have held a pen. There are countless words, phrases, sentences all floating around but I don’t know which one to chose? Which one to build upon? I pick one and many are pulled along with it, it needs company….words can’t survive alone, it’s only the very powerful few or the pen is so powering that it can give one word enough strength to stand alone and scream out louder than a dozen phrases compiled by a poet.

Where did I even start from? I lose track… I have so much to say, so much to convey but none of it I do fully before moving on… am I like this in real life too? Yes, the world, the life, of words and compositions, stories and poetry is a mystical life for me, the one which is better than real life ‘cuz I hold the pen in it, I chose the book, I don’t add the adjectives alone I get to make the nouns.. Lost track again.. life, yes that is what I should be worrying about.. –sigh- life and worry weren’t supposed to lie as near as we have brought them or were they? ‘I have a life to worry about’ is what they say but then there is also ‘I don’t need to worry about it, I have a life’.

Yet again I am confusing myself, instead of getting rid of a few knots in this tangled, endless rope of my thoughts, I am creating even more. Maybe when I read this in the morning I will think I wrote all this under the effect of the night, yes I do believe that the night has a somewhat evil effect on you, it makes you wilder than you should be but then what is a writer if he never visits the wildest corner, he can reach, of his mind. After all the most precious and pure pearls of creation lie where they are safe, far away... in the wild.