Why do I write?

Like drawing from a water well, sometimes ideas need to be pulled up from a very deep place, perhaps an unconscious place before they can be realized. We must go back in time in our minds to remember the feel of something, the colour, and the taste. Only then can we allow the reader to caress our work, to see the tears, the laughter, the taste of a fresh apple.

I hold my work close to my heart just as a Mother may cradle her child. My writing is my lover and I am under it’s spell. I write for the same reasons as Joan Didion, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” My memories and thoughts are reflected in first person. How selfish that must sound. I. Me. Myself. Yet it is my opinion, it is what I believe. I am demanding you to listen, to take notice of what I am saying. This is what I do best. It is a way to release stress, to have control over something, to keep it in order. It’s a chance to shut the world out and the things that aren’t important.

Some of the greatest creators only feel alive when they are doing what they love. People seek counselling in other people, or substances. Whereas writers and artists seek solitude in their art. It is thearupetic in a way, letting anger or sadness out through their work. Without writing there would be no joy in the world, no chance to reflect and debate issues or resolve things. The flow of the human mind is both beautiful and impossible to understand, it is interesting to wonder why people write. There must be something that sparks the interest, the life long dream of becoming a writer. I have always wanted to write, I am not great at what I do, yet I hope I am not terrible at it.

There is the constant struggle between madness, nature, and man whenever I try to get creative. Perhaps I am simply trying to make sense of the world around me. I am certainly not normal. I have days where I break down and cry because it is all to much. I want love to wrap it’s arms around me and tell me it will all be ok. Because been alone can drive a person insane. I personally cannot make sense of the way I think. You would lose your mind trying to understand mine. I find it hard focusing on one thing at once. I will be writing, but thinking about the lights I may have left on in my room, or the door I may not have locked. I wonder about the world, about why humans look the way they do. There are so many unanswered questions.

I close my laptop and go outside to breathe in the nature and the night, I stare at the garden, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. The sweet innocent flowers and trees during the day have turned into monstrous looking creatures. There are forbidden secrets here. I close my eyes and try to remember the feeling of freedom, where I am not weighed down by restrictions rules, or marks. My barefeet touch the prickly grass as I take off my shoes, I smile at the sensation. I am swaying, devoured in the sweet sound of a violin, I am to lost to notice where the music is coming from. My head tilts back in pleasure at the beauty of the sound. The delicate plucking of the violin strings are my undoing. My hand dances through the air creating a masterpiece of lines. The trees surround me, they are the orchestra. These faint memories of music I grasp onto. I remember hearing lullabies and childrens stories when I was younger. I often had porridge all over my face and barely any hair on my head. Those were the best days to be alive. Where there was nothing to worry about.

I stare at the sky, wondering why I bother writing. The number of writers in the world must match the number of stars in the sky. How can I stand out? I am the one to blame for my failure, I am a harsh judge with my work, nothing is good enough. It is a stressful task, but one I could not live without. I have to at least try, As Susan Griffins says, we can spend our whole lives writing and still hardly begin.

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