Why do I write? Is it merely for the rush I get when words magically flow out of the tip of my pen, and spread everywhere, like ink on water? Is it to express feelings which I otherwise choose to repress or deny? Is it to bring out a part of me which others cannot see, and which surprises even me? Or is it so that I can become something I wish to be; a free, fearless person I can only meet at the endings of my sentences?
Do I write to try to give a voice to the inexpressible sorrow which sometimes infiltrates my being and gradually consumes me? Do i write to break free from these walls which are silently preparing to come crashing down on me? Do I write because of that unbearable yearning within me to live completely: away from here, away from this body; so that I can be completely alive?
Why do I write? To try to bring meaning to a chaotic life? To elaborate on my otherwise insignificant and ignored thoughts? To explore all the feelings I usually deny possessing? Or to simply fill this void within me; a void already sick of leading a dead existence?
Maybe it is for all of this.
And maybe there isn’t an answer.