The release of writing
Sometimes I question myself why I write. Do I write for fun? Or for the hell of it? Or that I just have to do it because I’m lofty enough to regard myself as such. Sometimes, I have selfish reasons. I want myself to be heard and the people to listen to me. Sometimes, I convince myself through empty words and platitudes. Writing, in itself, is ego-inflating.
When I write, I throw away the conscious part of me, the insecure, ugly side that’s clings into my skin like a thick aroma of weakness and falsehood. Sometimes, I never write at all, content with my thoughts and ideas left unheard, unspoken, betraying the craft with just a shake of a head and thinking that it’s not worth of a word.
Words come easily to me when I write. I prefer email than voicemail. I like texting more than calling. I can have a personal conversation face-to-face with a friend and think about more comforting words to say when I face a blank paper. I would have enjoyed the time when people write letters for each other, never mind the inconvenience of late response and distance. Words that travel a great distance are priceless.
Sometimes, I’m envious of those writers who knew what words to say to express themselves. Sometimes, I even think that I write just to prove that I can write as well as they are. Sometimes, I write to prove to myself that I can write as well as I think I do.
Sometimes, I write to release the stress and exhaustion after a long, hard day, un-poetic day. Sometimes, the thing that causes so much stress and exhaustion is writing itself.
I often question myself why I write, but I’m finally realizing it doesn’t matter at all. More than an art or a craft or a science or a hobby, writing is an unpardonable vice of my life; a constant part of my existence. To deny it is to deny living. Whenever I am plagued by the question of why I write, or the urge to write, I try to think of a scenario where I cannot write anymore.
And that is something I cannot imagine living without.