"You once said that you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case, I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of self-revelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind.... That is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around when one writes, why even night is not night enough."

-Franz Kafka

Writing is raw. It is the explosion of a part of yourself that you didn't know was there until it is blaring in your mind's inner ears. That overwhelming rush that drives you to the pen and page, those verses that you cannot write fast enough, a piece that melts from the ink in your fingers. Those who feel it understand. Like your mind will combust if you don't get it out, like you will bleed from the pressure, yet also like the whisper will fade and be gone if you don't write it down. Writing is a struggle. It is that search for something elusive and intangible. It is solitary. It is at times maddening, to the full meaning of the state. Writing is not a choice. It is a visceral compulsion, that cannot be ignored.