I write because...

...I’m scared to talk (Which explains my mute temperament). Saying things out loud only makes things more real, too real. The problem with silence though, is that it intensifies all my other senses. But just as ink from a pen gets absorbed into paper, people get absorbed into my spirit and there they remain, in an ashen guardhouse. My own Bastille. Releasing them isn’t as easy as turning a key; it’s as painful as dissociating a limb. Even after release, a sense of them still remains and I take their place in captivity. Being my own warden doesn’t justify the torture I put myself through; it makes the punishment more discerning when I break the rules…