For the Love of Writing, or Some Other Catchy Title

Why do I write?

I spent the past few months asking myself that question, thinking about all the things I can write as an answer. Now that I’ve finally started typing, the words … elude me, somehow.

I write because I like it, that’s true, but I also write because … it makes sense. Sometimes I feel that I have to write a certain thought or idea down, or I—and the world—will lose it forever. The sheer thought that that might happen threatens to drive me mad.

But then a conflict erupts inside me: I know that words have power, and that I, by using that weapon, also have power, but at the same time, I feel so … insignificant most of the time. I know my thoughts are my own, and that I am authentic and true to myself and to others. Inauthenticity kills me. I know that my thoughts belong to me, and me alone. No one who ever lived or that ever will live could possibly have my same thoughts. In a way, I like to look at it as a moral obligation to the world, like the world would lose a lot if it didn’t hear my opinion on things and didn’t read my words. I believe the same for everyone.

But that’s not why I write.

I write because … when I write, I have a voice.

I can become anybody. I can live thousands of lives writing. When I’m writing, I am the most empathetic.

When I speak, I feel this certain obligation to entertain. I have to be funny. I have to get the punchline right. I have to say the right words, pronounce them correctly, maintain the correctness of my grammar, the timing … It’s crazy! And when I try to be deep, I mostly have to cover it up by throwing in a joke or an unexpected comment because everyone just makes fun of depth now. It’s the trend. To be honest, too much depth may not be good for you either.

But when I write, I have the chance to let out all that’s on my mind without worrying about how people are going to take it. I can unleash my thoughts and find out more about myself by the word, because I have all the time in the world, and also because it’s more accepted to be yourself on paper. It’s okay to be deep. It’s okay to be cynical. It’s okay to be detailed. It’s okay to do whatever in heaven you want.

Writing gives me the chance to express the things my tongue never did. Not as efficiently, anyway.

When I write, I feel that I can see the world with more clarity, and suddenly I don’t want to stop. Like right now. This had been intended to be a brief paragraph or two, but now I can’t stop. Words are … God, words are life. Language is brilliant. And to be able to utilize language to make something new, something original, something that’s entirely yours … it fascinates me.

Words may be said by a million other tongues, but coming from me, they are my own.

No one ever sat down and wrote what I am writing. No one ever will. Be it good or bad writing is of little importance; it’s the self-discovery and the feeling of something inside you glowing like an orb of light that grows and grows and grows until you feel it’s about to burst out of you … that’s what matters to me.

The way I whisper the words as I type them … the way I smile a little as I put one tiny letter next to its friend and produce something … the way I can see the energy, the potential, stir inside me, blue, grand, magnificent … I never feel more like myself than when I’m left alone with a keyboard or a pen and a piece of paper.

I write because … it’s the only thing I can do to express. It’s my best chance at changing the world. It’s the only way that I can have a voice.

October 26th, 2019