As I sit in silence, reading and rereading the words I have committed to the page

I find myself brooding over my written words. Are they me. Are they the real me
What I write does not always reflect who I am. Yet though there are times
Times when something inside me comes spilling out. A dam that has burst
Joyful moments to be treasured. Watching the words magically appear on the page
To create, to breath life into a random thought. This is a task of love. Never a chore
Fatigue may set in but it matters not. It is of little importance. It has no power over me
You continue on writing throughout the night. Seldom do the words appear in daylight
Perhaps they would lose their meaning. Be bland. Uninteresting if born in the light of day
Is this fact or fiction. How do you know. How can you tell. Well perhaps you cannot 
Something else for me to brood over. It is of no consequence really. It simply is what it is
Overthinking is counterproductive to my way of writing. It must be there. Patiently waiting
It is time to settle down. I say this but what is its meaning. Settle to rest or settle to write
No matter. If rest is required it will come. But only when I have no words waiting to be said
This way of life gives me pleasure. Writing is for me an outlet. A chance to be creative
Does it really matter if it is good or bad. I think not. What really matters is my own perception