I love to lose myself to the words sometimes.
And I begin to write. About everything and anything but mostly about love and freedom. I write about living, outbreaks, passion, nature and strength.
I used to write with my head but my heart felt empty. There are two types of writers: those who write in sophisticated words, what people want them to write, from their head, for certain circles of people, and those whose hearts are writing for them. Those in the last world - they live and feel and write.
And you know the beauty of those? They don't write about what other people want. They write what they feel. Those who are in love with the letters, who are dressed in them, cannot control the words - letters are having them. Those people are those who are writing or typing because they want to immortalize a thought that's been ceaselessly living in their mind. Those are the dreamers, romantics, from another world, you name it.
They don't even write for them. They probably write for no one in particular. They breathe letters in and out.
People like me, we don't write. We close our eyes and we let the words arrange themselves. We let them paint the picture we have inside, so others can see the beauty of the soul. We invent love, people and dreams in which we lose ourselves. Our reality is where our souls are melting.
We live every second like this. We never die.
