The mind is a complex machine that is comprised of science and matter. It can be explained easily at times and yet is beyond explanation at others. A mind can be a universe made of stars and dreams or it can be a black hole, trapping you for all eternity, darkness surrounding your entire being. It’s the worst fight you could have because it’s all in your mind, inside you. You can’t walk away from it, you have to force yourself to breathe and distract yourself with something much more absorbing. Your mind is your worst enemy.
At one point in my life, I wanted to study the mind. I was intrigued by serial killers and the mentally ill. I wanted to know why they did the things they did. I thought about psychology and neurology, I wanted to know how the brain worked. As I performed my research, I discovered how in depth the science was and I wondered if I would end up being burnt out trying to study such matters. I did not want to end up hating what I started out loving, so I turned the page on that major. I went to college and discovered the love I had for writing and decided I had to try with this at least. Today I enjoy watching my psychos on "American Horror Story;" I get to enjoy from afar and still question their madness.
Writing is a release for many people, they love it and just do it whenever. For myself, it is a last minute resort and I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s my own laziness or fear that what I write won’t be of any use. The words I put down won’t fit into a story or article idea, therefore not being useful, except for the obvious, it will make me feel better. I suppose I enjoy thinking that I am able to deal with my frustration in a different way that’s more active than writing. I could dance, clean, or yell at an imaginary figure. However, in the end when I’m at my wit’s end and I can feel the anxiety and frustration bubbling to the top of my skin, almost spilling over. I know that I have to write. There’s no escape exit, but my pen and paper.
So I sit myself down, put my iPod on and put ink to paper. It helps because it knows it’s the only outlet that can do the job. I can’t be afraid of what the ink might say or what will result from the writings. I have to face what my thoughts are thinking and I have to let it out. I can’t be afraid. I have to face this career that I want and chose. I have to write more and more without trying to ignore it. The procrastination of music, dancing and cleaning is all a façade to what I really need. A pen and no weakness to do what needs to be done.
