Ernest Hemingway once said, “There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” But what happens, when you can’t bleed? You cut yourself a million times, you see the scars, you feel the pain, yet not a drop of blood flows. What happens when all your blood is gone, and you’re just a lump of mass? What about when you feel so dead inside? What about when everything is trapped inside you, but your skin got so thick with all the endurance that not even the sharpest sword can pierce you? What about then? How do you write when your own words betray you? How do you find words when you’ve lost yourself?

Fuck you, Hemingway, for painting such an easy picture! Words don’t come that easy.

To all the writers for whom writing is more than just or a hobby or a passion, but also a profession…
To the people who have to find words even when they have lost themselves…
To those brilliant writers who have to paint a beautiful happy day while there’s a storm raging in their lives and minds…
I salute you. Each and every one of you.