Write

Ink is like blood, Nazr thought; it spills into the world by means of the same sensation: pain. Write, his family would implore, write! They didn’t know what they asked of him—they didn’t know the dark and perilous recesses of his mind that he’d have to wander through in search of words. Yes, words, that’s all the masochistic exercise would yield—so easy to ignore, words; people carry volumes in their palms and pockets, they hardly mean anything anymore; at least half aren’t meant to mean anything, and the other half is lost to ADHD, or the idea of ADHD, or the desire for ADHD.

So why bring upon yourself all the pain that comes with writing? With each excruciating word pierced onto the page, Nazr failed to find an answer. One thing he did know, however, was that it was much more painful not to write. Maybe his family knew this—well, at least his mom; surely, she saw the anguish on his face, the tension that gripped the tops of his shoulders, all the way down to his curled toes, as he attempted to hold a fire inside him, with no hope for respite. It was self-destruction, for and by someone who thought he deserved nothing more. It was selfish really.

Write, his family repeated.

Alright, he finally answered, for you.