Writing is like taking off all your clothes and asking someone to psychoanalyze you while sit there stark naked, drinking tea and pondering. Writing can strip apart a human being and lay them out for the whole world to see. That’s what I feel like sometimes when I read something extremely personal that someone has written, for nobody’s and everybody’s eyes only. It’s kind of nauseating—as in, my stomach churns and I question my judgment, and I truly wonder whether I should even be taking a peak. There’s something about writing that is so utterly sacred. I just can’t articulate it properly. But any medium that gives you stomachaches, headaches, and heartaches all at once must be holy in its own sense.
Writing is an art. Writing is like dance. Each comma is a raised eyebrow, each period a flick of the finger, each semi-colon a leap and a turn—choreography with punctuation and words. Writing is like painting with bold and light brush strokes, expansive blues, and deep reds. Writing is like singing in the way you enunciate the words in your head before you write them down, enjoying each and every click the letters make as they snap into place next to one another. But is all art meant to be exhibited? Do you ask permission to see every piece of artwork? Can I just stroll into a gallery of art from the privacy of my own home and quietly observe various brush strokes and strung-together scratches?
My fingertips are shaking from not knowing the answers to these questions. Sometimes, and only sometimes, I hate that there exist variables in every proposition. At certain moments, like this one, I desperately wish that there would exist only one answer to every question. Then I could memorize my wisdom through flashcards and vocabulary games—application would be easy. | 
