It’s easy to write when you are mad. Your pen slides when you are furious, hurt and alone. All makes sense at the same moment it begins to be forgotten. A sun bath, a long walk, a never ending run to be where you don’t want to be.
It’s easy to pretend you forget, it’s free to hurt someone and it may seem fun to seek for revenge. But at the same time it stops making sense and you need a mirror when there are non.
It’s easy to breathe, cheap to cry, and liberating to scream. But the contents in your head don’t change if you are alone.