I write.
I write because I have to.
Not out of obligation, but out of a critical need.
I write because it is an outlet for the things in my head that I have trouble expressing with my voice. Writing becomes my voice, my way of exploring how I feel, my way of explaining how I feel. Writing allows me to rehearse and revise my thoughts so that I can help others understand me, and through that, writing helps me better understand myself.
Writing is addiction that I feed because it nurtures my soul.
If I go too long without writing, I become a different version of myself. When deprived of time to write, my soul becomes dried out, drought-stricken. Writing hydrates me, and when that rainstorm of words finally arrives as I sit at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, words and feelings spilling out, I soak it all up like a dry riverbed. I stand there in the rain, the absence of which I caused, the creation of which I caused, and I am restored.
I mostly write fiction, because I like to create something to hide behind, which feels safer than exposing myself. I create stories about places I'll never go to, stories about people I'll never meet, because neither the places or the people exist. Like me, they exist in silence. They exist in their own world, hidden, but they have stories to tell. I write about them to tell their story, often letting the characters themselves tell me what happens next, not realizing that in the end, I am telling my own story. None of it is real, yet so much of it is. There are many truths about myself hidden between the lines.
My wife inspires me to write.
She can see the affect that writing, or not writing, has on me, and knows that I need it more than even I recognize sometimes. She inspires and pushes me to write, to connect with myself through these words, to connect with parts of me that I have denied the existence of. Through my words, she can connect with me on levels that I struggle to communicate verbally. The words I write are keys to doors that I didn't know were locked, keys to doors that, until I wrote about them, I didn't know existed, and they let her in.
They let her in and I am not alone anymore.
And so I write.
I write for me, as it is the best form of self-care. I write for me because it lets me breathe. It heals me. It lets me feel pain, it lets me feel anger, and it lets me forgive. It lets me feel love and purpose. It lets me tear down walls I no longer need, because I am no longer alone.
I write for my wife, because when she looks at me, she tells me she sees sunlight reflecting off something hiding in the rubble. She knows there is treasure within me, but only I can dig for it. I've found some of it already, but she tells me there's more. I'm inclined to believe her.
Writing allows me to exist, no longer in silence.
No longer just in my world, but in your world, too.
I write because I have to.
Not out of obligation, but out of a critical need.
I write because it is an outlet for the things in my head that I have trouble expressing with my voice. Writing becomes my voice, my way of exploring how I feel, my way of explaining how I feel. Writing allows me to rehearse and revise my thoughts so that I can help others understand me, and through that, writing helps me better understand myself.
Writing is addiction that I feed because it nurtures my soul.
If I go too long without writing, I become a different version of myself. When deprived of time to write, my soul becomes dried out, drought-stricken. Writing hydrates me, and when that rainstorm of words finally arrives as I sit at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, words and feelings spilling out, I soak it all up like a dry riverbed. I stand there in the rain, the absence of which I caused, the creation of which I caused, and I am restored.
I mostly write fiction, because I like to create something to hide behind, which feels safer than exposing myself. I create stories about places I'll never go to, stories about people I'll never meet, because neither the places or the people exist. Like me, they exist in silence. They exist in their own world, hidden, but they have stories to tell. I write about them to tell their story, often letting the characters themselves tell me what happens next, not realizing that in the end, I am telling my own story. None of it is real, yet so much of it is. There are many truths about myself hidden between the lines.
My wife inspires me to write.
She can see the affect that writing, or not writing, has on me, and knows that I need it more than even I recognize sometimes. She inspires and pushes me to write, to connect with myself through these words, to connect with parts of me that I have denied the existence of. Through my words, she can connect with me on levels that I struggle to communicate verbally. The words I write are keys to doors that I didn't know were locked, keys to doors that, until I wrote about them, I didn't know existed, and they let her in.
They let her in and I am not alone anymore.
And so I write.
I write for me, as it is the best form of self-care. I write for me because it lets me breathe. It heals me. It lets me feel pain, it lets me feel anger, and it lets me forgive. It lets me feel love and purpose. It lets me tear down walls I no longer need, because I am no longer alone.
I write for my wife, because when she looks at me, she tells me she sees sunlight reflecting off something hiding in the rubble. She knows there is treasure within me, but only I can dig for it. I've found some of it already, but she tells me there's more. I'm inclined to believe her.
Writing allows me to exist, no longer in silence.
No longer just in my world, but in your world, too.
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