Why Write?

I write to expose my vulnerability in an effort to relieve it. I write because I am furious for the situations I have voluntarily placed myself in and writing is my way of escaping that anger or trying to understand it.

I write because I am trying to know myself better or I’m making up a new person I’ll like better.

I write because I like putting ordinary words together into something beautiful, and sometimes it is not about beauty but about shock, nostalgia, passion, ego, self-righteousness, and insecurity.

I write because I don’t know what else to do with my life and so writing is a great way to fill time and feel productive.

I write because there is so much to write about. Writing makes me slow down and grasp meaning, lose meaning, see details, note details, create details where none exist. It makes me engage better with the world.

I write to express the love and pain alight within me. I write to have people know me and understand me and love me or hate me. And if they hate me there is still emotion and energy and where there is energy there is life.

I write to prevent death even though death happens every day in some form. I write to carry something forward, to create new life, to leave a stamp or a footprint somewhere in the half-moon light of an evening in August because I won’t have children and that is a way of leaving something of myself behind.

I write because I need to create something where there is nothing.

Sometimes I don’t want to write but I need to the same way that sometimes I need to eat when I don’t want to or I need to go through the painstaking motions of putting on my runners and tying the laces and putting one foot in front of the other in order to stay alive. It’s something I am willing to suffer for.

I write to keep a healthy mind and a clean heart, to rid myself of the filth that longing and attachment and misplaced love create, because otherwise I am selfish and concerned about things that don’t matter and worse, unconcerned about the things that do.

I write to accept myself so that I can be free. I write in order to love and understand people. I write to discover myself more everyday, to find out what I am capable of, to tap on all the secret doors within me that hold both surprises and emptiness.

I write because I feel hollow sometimes and words fill me with something better than cigarettes and alcohol, even if they are empty, pointless words. They tide me over until I am ready to feed myself with healthy, wholesome words.

I write to alleviate the proverbial constipation of a mind full of shit and to break the rules of social convention that warn against public vulnerability.

I write to break my own rules.

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