Bayardo Lacayo SOMETHING I WROTE THIS MORNING

I have once read that one should not waste anything in life. In fact, that to leave anything on the field is nothing more than a sin. Of course, the field is figurative. It can be anything. It could be a court, a game, a competition, or most importantly, a single sheet of paper. Granted, I am typing this, but the meaning is conserved. I suppose that these thoughts have impacted me much farther than I ever thought they would. I suppose that writing is the only way to make your soul visible. Or, to be more poetic: My soul is the ink that feeds the pen.
So would it be that every time I write, I am bleeding onto the paper? Is it my blood that seeps through the fibers of each sheet, and if so, will writing kill me one day? It would not come as a surprise, really, as writing has killed many a man before. But then again, it was not the writing that killed them. It was the response the public had, which ended their life. And then, even that begs another question. Is writing not just one's soul, but the soul of humanity?