what makes a writer different form all the other human beings?

the fact that they put down to words what most others choose to ignore, be oblivious to, and musicians sings some of them away?

what kind of egotism that could possibly emboldened them to believe what they have created has any worth at all?

how did it get it to their heads that they're any kind of special?

as Norah Jones "the stories has all been told, i guess i'll just follow along", the similar themes, merely differing renditions.

please do not take this as some sort of attack on the artistic in general or writers, this is an incoherent rant that centres on my trying to reason out my insecurities.

but of course, this is a doomed mission before it even starts.

logic cannot counter, let alone refute feelings, further explanation of said feelings will merely muddle it even more and logic requires clarity no?

i feel although i'm being audacious, daring with very little justifications in my doing so.

who am I to brave it out, lay it neatly and perfected when i'm anything but?

i sought to became an enchantress, dressed in threadbare rags, horse voice and stooped back, about to perform to a jaded audience, with little preparations, only for sheer bravado or foolishness, turning into a statue staring at the rising curtains, stark terror coursing the my veins, all the lyrics forgotten.

Incompatible appearance, background, i feel as though the odds are stacked against me before i could even begin.

i must write. no matter what. however much cynicism and scepticism stalling me, i must. because i cannot do anything else.

and that my dearies, is the truth. the cause and effect of everything.