Why I Write

Anger. 

Elation. 

Pain. 

Loathing. 

Stress. 

Jealousy. 

Tribulations. 

Excitement.  

Challenges. 

Fear.

 Change. 

Hope. 

I write for myself, solely, because I feel these things. I write because I feel. 

I write for my passion, for languages ability to capture feeling and make it tangible.

I write so that the tumorous and searing pains in my head can drip through my fingers, spread through the ink, and infect the words they take shape in instead of my mind. 

I write so I can sleep. So that at night, when I lay in my mound of blankets, it's only the outside-my-head noise that needs to be blocked out.

I write so that a beautiful moment is captured in all it's glory. I write to continue time, and to cheat it.  

I write in order to remember. But most often, I write to forget. 

Words operate like a lovely illusion. I re-read them to slow the seconds from passing; delete them and they're gone. 

I think most of all, I write to torment myself. Perhaps this is in hopes of the torment itself being enough; to feel the pain of the memories burning in my mind again, and then the sweet release of the words that allow me to throw that pain away. Repeat, repeat, repeat the pattern- to remember, then forget. 

I write selfishly, and in vain. Not to create works of art and leave my name behind in a glorious tribute to my sheer greatness. 

No. 

I play games with my head. Write to resurrect the emotion, relive the moment, relic in the sad remains of the something that's long dead in time's hand, but very much alive in the phrases of my literature. 

I write for control. 

I write for myself, solely, because I feel.