It has to go. All the need for validation.
All the hope that someone will come along and read or reassure you.
Art has to be art
I have to be me.
You have to be you
The world is not going to change or acquiesce or consider us or pardon our moments of weakness and nor will anything stop or celebrate our victories.
It has to go.
The need to be heard by anyone.
The need to be celebrated by anyone.
If you are here, then you have to be here for yourself.
Forget the script.
Forget the stage.
Forget if anyone comes or goes and forget who likes you or loves you.
Forget who pays attention to your social media or your pictures.
This has to go.
I am ending this here and keeping today and this journal shorter than usual
At the same time, I have letters to write and closure to find.
I cannot, should not, and will not give into the limitations that come when we start to question everything—and I mean literally everything.
I remember when I started writing.
I remember no one cared.
No one noticed.
And no one paid attention.
I was at my worst and writing at my best then.
Art is a trip around the world.
Art is our truth,
and so truthfully, yes, good or bad, I was one of the ones.
And I still am.
Maybe some of my letters will be meaningful.
Maybe I can be like Anne Frank.
And like she said in her journal, I doubt anyone cares about an outpouring of emotion and sentiments from someone like me.
But like frank—I’m not writing this for anything or anyone else, except for my own sanity.
And as for my sanity, I am that one who is unsure whether I am sane or not.
But whoever I am
I am still here.
Too many people I know are not because they failed to find the secret to their endurance.
And I am that one too
the one who endures
Good or bad –
I am that one too.
The Written Addiction 