Many people hear voices when no-one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up on rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.

Where others see a perfect- soft ceiling that roofs a house, our writer lies in bed and sees masses of lines that crack open to whisper words. Sometimes these ceilings bear clouds and become sky.  Other times it becomes sea and hosts pretty little mermaids dressed in pink. Wall hangings converse with the nails that hold them put while pictures of people on these wall hangings begin to bear emotion. They step out of the lifeless hanging and take form and character in a fictitious world where the writer is god. In the dead of the night, as the lights go out from one house to another, the writer comes to life. In this aloneness of the wee of the night, the writer feels alive — accompanies himself with the loneliness of his words.

Slowly the writer escapes from the self and becomes another, taking a journey into a world of fiction where grass is yellow and pumpkins turn into chariots. Here, words provide our writer a bridge to step in front of a mirror of the past, present and of the future. Joining the normal person and the writer is a brain that is capable of motoring the two- where the person dwells in the world as it is, while the writer dwells far away in the Solar Plexus.

Moral of the long talk? A writer is mad.

I have and I know you have read pieces by writers, visited blogs and gasped for breath at the awe of the words that have been birthed there. Sometimes I read a line and spend time trying to understand how someone can be so talented to craft a statement, a poem or even a story so creatively. Being a reader and a writer, the writer in me understands a little…but the reader awes and awes even more at the creations of writers by the mere use of words. Sometimes when I have conversations with my writer friends, it grows from a simple talk about an empty cup of coffee that rests on a table to dinosaurs that ride chariots and drink coffee.

All the good writers I know are mad. On the lead is the late Sylvia Plath. You need proof? Allow me to quote her:  “Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”

Sometimes I do think that sanity has no place in the brain of a writer. The reason why one is a writer is because sanity bores them.  The conventionalism nature of the world as it is suffocates those that are writers. Writing creates a pathway to escape, commit suicide and live again.

A writer’s writing is his and her madness. It is an insane sanity. This madness is also the therapy for the same ailing writer.

But who am I to judge? Who am I to even say these words without proof? Probably what I feel when I am writing is my own fit of madness , there existing no other. Probably writers are not people with subnormal intelligence, post-traumatic stress disorder, manic depression, self-imposed eremitic lifestyle and eccentric personalities as it is highly presumed by Psychiatrists . Probably writers are just people who sit behind a paper with pen trying to make human emotions right. Maybe.