Writing about writing

"I don't understand, how can anyone write so much?"

I love writing.
Making sense of life. Sorting, shaping thoughts, feelings, views.
Stopping them from crazily and endlessly spinning in my head.
But you have to be careful with what you share with the world.
Careful not to write about people you know, offending them.
Careful not to name people, not to say too much about yourself.
Careful, so you think you are safe but maybe you are not.
Even in a convoluted way, there is depth in sharing who you are.
Never thinking, how abstract words, could surprise you.
Colliding with a mirror of your inner world, painfully. In tangible reality.
Writing to touch others, never imagining how profoundly it would touch you.
Writing about what was learnt; not seeing the start of a new lesson.
How could questions and uncertainties be so intertwined with writing.
Not knowing what to think, say. Not wanting to say anything at all.
Food was scrumptious. Blissful. Cannot hurt, or turn insane.
For a time. But sickening after a terrible evening. Hate it.
For a time, wanting to never, ever, write about it again.
So here I am again, resuming drafts on what I really love to write about.