"Why do I write?" I ask myself.
"Why do I write?" I ask again.
No absolute answer comes to mind, although the reasons why seem so obvious. For instance, most of us write poetry to bleed the overwhelming surplus of emotions on the paper, until we feel alright...or empty ourselves. It's the best way to feel, and to feel human. The best way to organize thoughts and to better know ourselves— what we don't say out loud, we shout, we cry, we pour on paper. Our secrets take form of characters and are told on paper through their voices. Our wildest dreams come true and make us company— true company, people that want to be there for you and are there for you because you wrote them, you created them. Your characters, your stories, are your family. They love you and you love them— it is a connection like nothing else. To write is to be vulnerable and raw, but so complicated altogether. To write and read is to create life when there is none, is to make something out of only paper and ink. How beautiful that is.
How beautiful it is that I can express myself through silent words when my voice fails me. My heart speaks louder on paper than my voice ever could. I was not born to be a leader, a warrior or survivor, as my characters were— instead, I was meant to be a storyteller, and in doing so, I am all the things my characters are, and more, and nothing at the same time. How blessed and freeing it is to tell stories as your profession— it is much like being payed to dream and breathe.
"Why do I write?" I ask myself one last time. And I finally have the answer:
Writing is the only way I am truly free: to feel, to dream, to breathe.