WRiTinG is liKe CRaCK to mE

I love it, I hate it, it disrupts the mundane yet essential pursuits of a balanced life, my friends tell me I should stop, and I tell them I can stop anytime I want, but I know that I won’t, because I can’t imagine existence without it, and in the back of my mind I get angry and I curse and I say my friends don’t understand me, no one understands me, and I listen to myself and I take a long listen to what I am saying, and I think, no, no, no, this is not healthy, this will never do, you have got to stop it, and maybe for awhile I do, maybe I do stop it, but then, oh, oh, it’s killing me to stop it, and I’d rather die than live like this, and every day my fingers itch a little more, and then my hands are shaking and my arms are twitching, and I can’t do anything but want it back, and even if I go back to it, how will I write with shaking hands and twitching arms, how will I write when I have already been ruined by the loss of it.