When Hemingway says ‘there is nothing to writing’, you sit at a typewriter, and you bleed. You just don’t know how hard it is until you start dissecting yourself, and your hand trembles. How it hurts to cut yourself from the skinned conventions and ideas that people who love you made of you, to expose the dirtiest. What it runs in your blood when you’re not rationally thinking, what crosses your mind at night that you fear, what takes your sleep away. What crashes so fast in your brain, that you can’t even know how to silence it. Because when you squeeze your heart to the page, there’s no way of snoozing, or not bleed yourself out, there’s simply no way back from the shambles you created. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons Barthes calls publication ‘The Death of the Author’. We become  incapable of feeling what is real, unless it is written.


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