You open the document and begin typing.

Three days you’ve had ideas, but somehow the will does not come to write them until you are frustrated again. Why does your work come strongest – perhaps even best – when you are not so much inspired as in pain? All you want to do is ink your agony into letters and words, sentences and paragraphs, pages and chapters.

Yet you wonder what the point is of putting all this down. Why bother? Why try? It’s not like you’ll feel any better. At least, reason says that to wallow in misery is to provoke the beast and make it stronger.

You are not so sure.

Not that you are sure about anything.

So tired.

You hurt, and in more places than you thought you could. Your legs, your back, your shoulders, your fingers, your feet, your neck, your eyes-

Your brain. This pain is what drives you to write. If you spell it out, perhaps it will go away. At least you will come to better terms with it.

This is the purpose of writing: to take what hurts and make it so real, you can grasp it, smother it, and move on.

This is the sword which slays your beasts. The monsters inside.

This page.

These keys.

These words.

Your story.

Not a happy story, just a true one.

“Write the truest thing you know.” They say.

Alright, you think, I’ll write the truest thing. Right here, right now:

Life is misery and I just want it to end.

There, you’ve written what’s true.

Your story.

Now go slay that beast.