Someone that I admire very much once told me that writing has to have a meaning. The reader has to be able to know why you wrote what they are reading, but I don’t believe that. She was a very smart woman, and she taught me quite a bit, but I don’t believe that.

Writing has always been a gateway into the world of everything that isn’t reality. I dread reality; I’ve always been so aware of it and the sole impurities that fill it. What you read is supposed to cut a thin line in your mind that causes you to thrive, to bleed, for a certain emotion or longing. As long as you yearn for something, cry for someone, feel love that can’t really be described, I think then that the piece one has read has done its job.

Perhaps I’m wrong about that, or maybe I’m neither wrong nor right; it is simply something that one can use to filter through and throw out all of the thoughts that burn in one’s mind.When I write, I use it to try and make the most evil things beautiful, but that is what writing means to me.