There comes a point or a time where writing starts to define the writer.
He starts viewing life in metaphors, words and stories. Instead of actually living he tries to seize that moment, emotion or memory. He starts to live within the past and the future, the pains he went through and the possibilities, and forgets that the present is where he should be.
His life, for him, turns into an illustrated book he is reading and not experiencing because he is always writing about it in his head.
Writing should bring you to ease, help you discover yourself and the world by letting the universes in your mind flow through words. True words help healing the soul but when the words are not from the soul and are written more for others then oneself, well, it starts to rotten the soul, to slowly eat him up from the inside.
Writing shouldn’t define a writer.
Are you living, I mean actually living and not only breathing?