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“If I’m not making music then why the fuck am I existing?”

What does it mean - to be a writer? Who is he outside of the symbols on paper, on a screen? I know that writing was never a choice. It’s always demanding; knocking, pressuring. Incessant. An escape, perhaps. A way to cope with the world for someone much too sensitive to be alongside it in any normal fashion. I resist its fate. I detest its parasitic tendencies. My thoughts have gone murky. Things are complicated, all too complicated. My mood finds an outlet in the other end: everything which complicates is to blame. I want to rid myself of it. Again the pitfall has nestled itself back. Probably it never left. Abolishment of Dukkha is not found in the ways we manage suffering, but in the ways we withstand it. “In the midst of suffering, he does not suffer.” What does it mean for me, in my everyday petty squarrels? I see my patterns. I blame that which pressures for the suffering I feel. I habitually try to solve it, try to rid myself of the feeling. Pressure still has the existential taste of defeat.