“If you feel like you are drowning in your own thoughts, write.”
My deceased uncle once said that when I was fifteen. Not the best time of my life, but I managed to survive.
Now, every time my mind keeps saying the same thing over and over again, I write. Hundred of pages, loss of time — I write, I write, and I write until I have no fucking idea why I write in the first place.
This mind, sometimes, it fools me. It keeps giving me tricks. It keeps on feeding my ugly thoughts. The worst part is, they are always craving for more.
“Feed me, Nina. Feed me with the nastiest thing you’ve ever thought about.”
The nastiest thing? The nastiest thing that ever crossed my mind is someone willingly eating a mountain of dog shit. But I don’t think it’s what they mean by ‘the nastiest thing’. Those voices surely mean another thing. It’s probably something like this:
“Go face yourself in the mirror, Nina. Look at how pathetic you are. Ever heard about knife? Or razor?”
But I write. I write and listen to my uncle’s voice inside my head. Sometimes I think about him too. How did he die? It happened so suddenly. And no one in my family wants to give me a clue about the cause of his death.
He died at 40. Everybody knows he was always in a good shape. So he didn’t die because of an illness. And he was happy. He might be the happiest person I have ever known in my life. The smile on his face, it was always there as if he didn’t have any sadness and anger inside of him.
But, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t happy. I don’t know. He never told me about his life like I did to him. All he ever said to me was:
“Write, Nina. Don’t lose yourself.”
