The Sour Writer

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As I peep out of the window sill on a Saturday afternoon sipping coffee the last thing I wanna do is write. I would rather watch a movie or read a book or go out with friends or do anything but fucking writing. It sucks to write, its never good enough, it isolates you from the rest of the world, leaves you stranded, makes you find patterns and overthink stuff you should not. Its a pain. The words stab your mind with all these ideas, so fucked up they can shake your soul. Thank god I am not a writer. I just cannot. 
The problem is, its way too draining, I don't think I am ready for that investment. 
So I left my house, far far away from a pen and paper, dived right into the real world. It was so much fun. Everything felt like a game and I kept playing. One day I got sick and I could not play. I could not do anything. I took turns on my bed cursing everything that lead me to that bed. I had to do something to get rid of this devil in my head screaming day and night. I asked him to tell me a story.

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