Why I write

68b90b6835021f0ad6345f0be9a77b98The cold glow of the monitor beacons and I sit obediently, but nothing comes. I stare into the abyss, accosted by a million and one ideas simultaneously, each just out of my grasp, and grow frustrated at my inability to articulate a single one.

Resigning myself to a fruitless night, I start to type nonetheless. First a letter, then a word. Soon I have a sentence and moments later a paragraph. I don’t know if it’s coherent or not, I don’t know if it fits in the story, but I continue all the same. Like a waterfall, my thoughts cascade onto the page almost effortlessly. It’s like I’ve lost control and some otherworldly being, a Muse perhaps, has endowed me with that much sought after eloquence.

I type like mad, not bothering to care about grammar or spelling. They can wait. I type and then the page is filled and soon another. I type and I type, giving myself to inspiration, grateful for the gift bestowed onto me, conscious that inspiration is a fickle mistress. I create a world out of nothing, born out of my imagination and the need to say something meaningful.

I write because I must. I write because I dare not lose myself within my own creation. I write so that I can unburden myself. It’s the act of creating that fuels me. It’s the act of discovery, of wondering where my story with go, of where I will take myself that moves me. I have made myself laugh, and I have also made myself cry. I have moved myself and as I write I hope that I touch the reader, should I be lucky enough to find someone willing to read what I write.

But I have no readers yet, just a hope, and not a vain hope I pray. Even should I never find an audience, I fear I will still be compelled to write. I live though the written word. I have lived a thousand lives of men, or characters large and small, of men, women, and children. I have been the hero and the villain. I have seen both heaven and hell.

I write what I want to live, and I write what I have lived. I write of love and hate, of life and death, and I write of hope and despair. Writing is my therapy, my catharsis. I’m a personal writer, and though I may mold my thoughts to fit a certain situation, I can be found in the words that I have written.

So I continue to write, the warm glow of the monitor holding me captive. I write until I’ve been bled dry and I fall away, exhausted yet exhilarated. I leave a piece of me behind in the words that I have written. I want to be known by all, but fear that to be known I will know rejection.

But I will continue to write, to create, to bleed myself onto the screen. The blinking cursor prompts me to continue, but I’m unable at the moment. I’ve given my all for the sake of my sanity, and for sanity’s sake, I withdrawn into myself once more, only to heed the call of my mistress yet again.

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