what writers fear the most

If the waves of the sea don’t come back to the shore or if the ripples of the bed sheets of two lovers don’t show up anymore. If the birds don’t sing and the flowers don’t dance, or if the words of the books don’t appear. If your irises are nothing but colorless or if all the letters of the world are burned. If music becomes dull and if the colorful paints in different shades melt into nothing. If your hands lose their warmth or if a child touches his or her mother’s hand it is cold, blue, and lifeless. It is a writer’s fear, but it is not the greatest.

It is a writer’s fear of being emotionless too. The feeling of that emptiness, pulling you down below to something you can’t exactly fathom. Imagine the feeling of being a nonexistent being, floating in the midst of the earth. Everyone would look past you. You would watch them wither like a sunflower facing away from the sun.

Do you know why writers fear being emotionless? Because you can never write without emotion. The mere lack of emotions prevent writers from writing something remarkable and tremendous. It prevents the writer from writing something so extraordinary that would blow all of your nerve cells. If you could write without emotion, well, I tell you, the output would be nothing but bland and mediocre — empty.

To write is something much more. To write is to love.

To write beautifully, you should be a lover. A lover of a man or a woman, caressing their hands and feeling their warmth against your body. A lover of a friend, giving them hugs and smiles to remember. A lover of a family member, imprinting marks on their minds, souls, and hearts so that they’ll know that they are important to you. Or maybe a lover of joy, or even of sadness. A lover of life, or maybe, a lover of death. A lover of the most important ingredient of all: words. And that is what writers fear the most — to lose their words from their souls.

They fear losing writing in their hearts. The deep feeling as they write their words, for them, is so powerful, so strong that they couldn’t let it go. It is a drug. A drug that keeps on pushing them, caressing their fingers so that they would write and write and write. It is a drug that pushes their hearts to pound all the way through. It is a drug that makes them feel good about themselves because it heals what needs to be stitched or glued inside of them — slowly and painfully.

For writers, to lose writing from their grip is to lose their grip on their sanity.