The truth is, these people aren’t reading your words. They aren’t savouring your thoughts as you struggle to mold them into comely pieces of creative pursuits. They aren’t devouring every letter of what you’re spilling onto every page of every sheet of paper. They don’t empathise every twist and turn of your written statement. They don’t conceive the real purport of every stroke you make. They don’t deem the tones of your overwhelming emotions. They don’t feel the pressure of your towering passions.

But you write. So you’re probably aware of that.

The sun will shine and set just as the moon is going to take over the night sky and play with the stars until it got tired and decided to rest. Along the fleeting of days and changing of seasons, the words you sketched and thoughts you painted and ideas you carved onto their skins and flesh and brains are slowly going to bleach and decay and dissipate. And there’s no way of changing that, no way of preventing that, no way of stopping that.

But you write. So you’re probably aware of that.

Time will come and what used to be yours and make you feel complete will be the reason for the drastic emptiness you’re bound to hold and endure. Every missive you composed and let the world see will be beaten by new writings and vanquished by the fancies you first planted in your own enormous yard of creativity and imagery. Some will even claim your written properties as theirs, whilst others are going to hold them against you. It will happen because it just will. Because it’s yours. And what’s yours will always be tried to be taken away from you.

But you write. So you’re probably aware of that.

The lie is, your words are never going to make a difference. Every letter you scribble and type onto each leaf of your notebook isn’t going to contribute change to the brisk world. Every aesthesis you press onto every character you scrawl isn’t going to mean something. Every idea you share doesn’t count for anything. Because they will.

But you write. So you’re probably aware of that.

(Source: andreudareenwrites)