On the art of flowing characters

What is writting?
Is it conveying a message?
Telling a story?
Sharing an experience?
For me, writting was a little bit of all of the above. But most of all it was laying bare what i felt inside. It was also a tool to help me better analyse and process the events that were happening all around me.
No matter what I wrote or what had happened, seeing it on paper, having put it to paper, it somehow felt like i was reading someone elses story and so i could give myself advice.
In my darkest days i could not write everything down, it was too overwhelming, too deep.
Daring to stare ones own abyss in the eyes...
I still remember those days on the wastelands, having to struggle every single day just for the night to arrive and then to repeat the cycle over and over again.
Having left the dark room with all it enticed, it had food, heat...
But as harsh as the conditions got, it somehow felt that anything i could get from the scarce resources i could gather was more satisfying.
I depended on myself, i had to take care of myself, i had to survive each and everyday.
It felt good...