Blabber

Sometimes, I just want to write. I want to write until my hands fall off and ink covers pages and pages of ethereal nonsense. I want to be able to write, such that my pen is a paintbrush and the words are paint. They paint pure sunlight, clouds, water, earth, warmth, sadness, joy, sorrow and peace. I want to be able to write my mistakes and accept them as who I am, enveloping in a hug of comfort and a sense of safety. I want to write to secure myself, and redeem myself from the things I wish to ignore. I want to write myself a new world of gold and warmth, cushions and blankets and cocoa and happiness because right now every part of me is drained and tired and I can't face the things I must.
Small things. Things that add up to not so small things.
I'm not good at math (?)
I want to write off all the unhappy and make my work like the feeling of nostalgia- fond, welcoming and comforting. I want to write so much that the word no longer means anything to me but a reflex action of my mouth and hands, remembering to function properly. That made no sense. It doesn't have to. I just want to write.
I want to write until I'm surrounded by a sea of pages and ink and waves and waves of little things are coming at me and maybe it's scary but how else can I learn to swim? I could start off by floating but the only thing that's keeping me up is my will to write, and write and write and maybe my fingers go numb and the stars blur out and I can't see or feel, but sometimes I just want to pour out everything and be empty for a while.
Empty kettles make the most noise.
I want to write out the noise and make everything silent and happy and quiet and quiet and can everybody please stop talking and listen to the music because music is written and writing is beautiful so I want to write.
I want to write out of the box that I haven't written about because no one can write about a box and assume I know the box and boxes are so constrictive.
Maybe one day my writing will be more than just words on a torn out sheet in a math book as a result of a lack of motivation, but as if right now my writing is just writing and nothing else but how does it matter if everything I write is right but wrong as who's to tell me I'm not right?
I want to write so much that my hands fall off and ink covers pages and pages of I don't know what but all I know is that I wrote and the world now contains a part of me and maybe it's really annoying but hey! at least I wrote for pages and pages and maybe it's not enough but who's going to write me off?

~Divya

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\Whaddup I'm Jared, I'm 19 and I never learnt how to read.