Often it is the only thing between you and impossibility.
No drink, no woman’s love, no wealth can match it.
Nothing can save you except writing.
It keeps the walls from failing.
The hordes from closing in.
It blasts the darkness.
Writing is the ultimate psychiatrist, the kindliest god of all the gods.
Writing stalks death.
It knows no quit.
And writing laughs at itself, at pain.
It is the last expectation, the last explanation.
That’s
what it
is.