I was told to write about good life experience. I couldn't recall a single, lonely memory: I've found that the past in my eyes seems an odd stew of wincing bitter, frozen heat, and dying light. I was told to write about relationships. How bland would that taste, revolving my story around another? Writers thrive in narcissism. We only succeed when we write of ourselves, even if the names or circumstances differ. I was told to write about my interests. I wish I had interests to write of, but my mind and heart have become slaves to my education. I am one of many robots the education system in America is creating. Writing has become my only solace in a world too bright to bear another star and too dark too allow any light. I was told to write about travelling. Yes, I could do this. I've been so many places and seen so many things. What does that matter, truly, in the end? If I was too stressed to live, I was certainly in my own world too much to allow those travels to morph me in the ways they should have. I was told to write my heart. But what is that? Is my heart the melting pot of all I've been through, or the emotions I've felt, or is it my beliefs? I suppose the 'correct' answer would be that my heart is the amalgamation of all of these ideas. That I am not one thing, I am many, and cannot be confined to the bars of one single category. However, when, other than in movies, does the 'right' side prevail? When is it that 'good' is louder than 'evil'? How can I preach the pureness of my heart when my eyes only see that resonating evil? I was told to write, and never stop writing, because that was my dream. These people standing around me, who claim to support me -- love me -- encourage my insanity. They smile while I run on my treadmill with the goal of reaching the crown of the mountain, so I can look down at all the other treadmills around and thank the stars that I'm not on one. I was told to write what I love. But I was also told to write what I know. I do not know what I love. No one truly knows what or who they love until those things are gone and you're left alone, reminiscing on the past and spiting yourself for not still living there. I was told to write, but for a while, I failed to. I live with a horrid sense of dread each day, because the longer I go, the closer I know I am to the acknowledgement of my paralysis. For those years, I was terrified of failure, but even more terrified of success. It petrified me to think that I had been lying to myself for so long; it petrified me that maybe I was alright. Maybe I even had talent. I was told to write, but never told why. I think I might be discovering my why. I will not write for anyone else. I will not write for success, or for fame, or for money. I will write for my own sanity, and to attempt fulfilling a dream. I've heard one in a million authors get to fulfill their dreams, so maybe I'll play the game, instead of sitting aside, fearing it. I was told to write, and I will, but the only voice I am obeying is my own. I have been desperately telling myself to write for quite some time.