Although I still struggle to call myself a writer, I have always felt there are two types of them.
One, who can write anything, at anytime.
Who howl at the moon in the hopes it would love them back. Who scream how people change but love them all the same.
Who cry and then claim to be empty.
Who go crazy from time to time.
Those who love the wolves.
Those who call themselves an artist.
Second, whom words choke until they spit them out. Who wander into cold, vacant vintage stores in the noons and make patterns on the dust for hours.
Who have different souls of all ages.
The arsonists who burn everything they touch but the ink on paper and it’s so beautiful ugly beautiful, the world stares at them in awe.
Who have been insane from a long time. Who create chaos out of peace. Who can start fire from water.
Those who save the wolves.
Those who create art.