Writing is a reflection of listening to a cacophony of voices within oneself, visualising their lives, feeling their wide range of emotions and absorbing their thoughts which are not necessarily at peace with one’s own.
It’s indeed a strange kind of consciousness. To figure out who’s speaking. To talk about all these voices, writing their stories down and not be judged as deranged anymore, but actively creative, carving out what unites and moves us all.
Sometimes it’s a direct ejection from mind to paper, but oftentimes they try to override one another, battling for the extraction and manifestation. The voices are greedy for attention, for life, and at times they die within us.
The recreative cycle never ends if one tunes in with what they have to say and reveal; they might be older than we are, wiser maybe, that they lack form doesn’t matter because our mind and our activity give them the form and outlet they need. Their purpose accomplished. A good death. A never-ending life in the imagination of the reader.
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