Why do I write? —An amateur's attempt to pen down the complex.
I write because I must.
Often I didn't know why I must write. Is it to show the world I have great language skills? Is it because I am bored and love to write? Or is it because it's cool to be a writer these days?
I write because I must. Because if I won't, the words will choke me and give me anxiety. To breathe a little.
Sometimes the shapeless thoughts would wander everywhere and leak out of the mind. They must be caged into words, I think. I try to hold them. But then there's the world, the responsibilities, work, and then, they fly high into the sky, lost forever— until they come again at odd times to create trouble for me.
I write because I want things to make sense. Just a little more sense.
I write in a futile attempt to change the whirlwind of the inner abstract into concrete. I know I won't be able to make all of those clumps of thoughts into a meaningful whole, or may be I would. I won't be able to attend to every complex emotion, the one lost, some stuck in tight corners. Some who I fear that they would tear me up if I touch them. Oh! To caress it and dress it up nice and articulate. I try and try, but words fail me.
Still, I write, because I must.
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