Why do I write?

People will ask my why I write; I suppose I’ll say it’s because I enjoy it. Or maybe because of the hope that, one day far in the future, I may glean some semblance of success from what I do. But this only provides an answer to the question. It does not provide the truth. You see, the thing is, I don’t write to answer questions – or not to answer anyone else’s at least. I write because, when I feel joy, writing it down is the only real way I can capture and contain that feeling, like fireflies in a jar, to admire again when the darkness creeps in.

I write, because when the darkness does come, the words are all I have left. They are the only things that understand. Because words do not feel hurt, they only channel it; and I’ll let all of the pain and the hurting be taken up by the page in inky tears. Because at times, that is the only outlet it has left.

I write, because longing is not a need that can be described in any other way, unless you feel it. The words know how it feels, that burning desire to reach the end of the page, to carry on and on into forever. They understand loving too. They are the best way I have found to free it, to show it, when there is nothing here to love but the blank sheet in front of me. And hatred, that too has found its way into the words. Anger which, if spoken, would leave me burning, but which on the page leaves only a trace. A whisper in the peaceful silence.

My point is, I do not write for anybody else, nor because I feel I have to. I write for myself, because it makes me feel alive, and because I believe that words have a life far more meaningful and enduring that ours. So next time someone asks me why I write, I will just smile, knowing that these pages hold the truths which cannot always be heard.

 

 

 

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