I write. I write to find myself. To gather the words to sum up my innermost feelings (they say we were once hunter-gatherers and it's never been more true), those which sounds don't justify// I write to lose myself. The endless flow of commas, full stops, verbs, nouns// I
down rabbit holes of description, lost in the endless adjectives. A thousand ways to scrawl a sentence// I write to give myself the illusion that something will last beyond me, that I've staked a claim on one tiny corner of the universe (// I found an old postcard in an antique store the other day. The faded ink stretched across the page, reaching out into the world like a new-born babe. Or a dying star. I wonder what became of the author. I write in the hope that one day a stranger may wonder what became of me.) I write to feel less alone// I write to feel individual, like my ideas are mine, completely new, hairless and screaming as they make themselves known, not just an amalgamation of the ideas of others. An endless, vicious cycle// I write to remember, to learn the shapes of new facts, the feel of them, the sounds they make as my pen inches across the page// I write to forget. The letters lost to oblivion//
I write to feel alive.