Why do I write?
Honestly, I don’t know.
Sometimes the words feverishly come out of me. I am like a whirlwind, and the keyboard is caught up in my hurry; it has never has seen such violence.
Sometimes the words are grated from my very being. I force myself onto the keyboard, and every stroke feels heavy as if a ball and chain dangled from each arm.
Sometimes I wonder whether writing is procrastination. A way for me to avoid the real world. Then I remember, it is part of my world.
Sometimes I write when I am lost, in an attempt to become found.
Sometimes I write when I am found, in an attempt to become lost.
Sometimes I write to ease the pain.
Sometimes I write to feel the pain.
Sometimes I write when I have been struck by wisdom, and wish to preserve what I have learnt lest it fall victim to my own stupidity.
Sometimes I write when I have been struck by stupidity, and wish to laugh at my foolishness. The only true way to learn.
Sometimes I write when a friend wishes to tell me something which they do not possess the courage to say in plain words. So, instead I tell them back in script, as if to say: it is okay, you can tell me, I hear you, I’m listening.
Sometimes I write to preserve sanity. Heaven forbid these things should remain bottled up, now that would not be good.
Sometimes I write to hold onto the crazy, something I absolutely must not lose.
And sometimes I just write.
Often, I don’t know where I’m going when I begin. I don’t know why I have decided to open the page. And I don’t know where it will end, or, for that matter if it will.
Invariably, it always becomes clear because always I write.
I must. My soul begs it of me.
Who am I not to oblige?