Why I write

I write because I’m tired of the pain my thoughts carry so I try to put it all on paper, hoping that the lead weight might get dissipated, diluted in the ink from my pen.

I write because the hurt, the mortal hurt of a thousand billion souls that came before me, who all felt this acute loneliness, might, for the briefest of moments get lost in a flowery language on the page.

I write because the voice in my head screams at me so hard that sometimes all I can do to silence it is to pick the pen and paper.

I write because the distraction of our modern life makes existence feel so insipid that the only way to get a remote sense of achievement is to write.

I write because oblivion is worse than death and despite my limited imagination I can still picture the words on the page being read by someone like me maybe a hundred years from now. I write because my ego knows no bounds.

I write because not writing feels like stagnation, decay of the spirit. The words on the page are like the transformative tears releasing my spirit from doubt.

I write to find a way to express the boundless emotion I feel when faced with so much pleasure and pain, all in equal measure. I write to satiate the hunger for everything that I am starving for: pleasure, experiences, pain, hurt, redemption, vindication.

I write because talking to myself all the time now verges on insanity.

I write because I need an outlet for my anger. It comes in like the tide, burying me in a watery grave of emotion. The words on the page are my life buoy. Channelling my anger into words on the page allows me to continue to be decent.

I write because screaming in pain as loudly as I can is not acceptable behaviour in today’s society.

I write to get attention. I write because I need more out of this jaded life.

I write because I need someone to hear, listen, see my feelings as raw as they are. I write because I need human understanding and writing is the only way I can express myself.

I write because pain can be painted with the colour of a thousand words.

I write because it’s the only way I know to get through to you. I write so you can see me.

I write so I can like myself more for, having written, I can continue to pretend I’ve achieved something noteworthy. Having written, I can say I’ve understood part of my mortality and humanity.

I write so I can silently argue with myself.

I write because the pain of just existing, without the effort of creativity cannot be surpassed, even by the pain of being alone. In writing I am talking to you and you and myself. We are finding one another, oblivious of the time that separates us.

I write because it’s the only form of time-travel I can think of.

I write to remind myself that even in my most abject loneliness I can give magical meanings to words, thus elevating my own spirit from the pits of despair.

I write because I need to give my mind a platform to move in, dance in, perform, stretch its muscles, twirl and run around in. The page is my mind’s dancefloor. I write because I feel that the sheer volume and magnitude of my emotions need to be chronicled.

I write to remind myself I’m alive. When the fear brings numbness to the heart, I find refuge on the page. It’s where my fears come to be transformed.

I write because the discipline of having written can be almost as sweet as the abandonment to an ardent kiss, almost as precious as a lover’s touch, only more longlasting.

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