Why I Write

A lot of things come rushing through my mind when I start to write----well, when I THINK about starting to write. When I get my pen and paper, laptop, whatever, there’s just this onslaught of ideas, suggestions that come flowing through and out of my head.

And it’s hard. Well it’s confusing. It’s debilitating.

Whatever. I just said that word because it’s sounds nice. Debilitating. Haha. I like it. Like bears. And ponies. J

But not writing. I don’t like writing. It’s a burden. It’s tiring. It’s just painful to even THINK about what to write.

But here I am. Writing.

Weird. In that influx of ideas, I am in pain, in the middle of confusion-land and I AM IN PAIN. But my heart starts to pump faster. It just builds up this sort of tension, this excitement that I’m going to write again. I’m finally going to have that new article. That new blog post I’ve been dying to post. The adrenaline’s just… there. I may not like the product, I might even cry over how horrible it is, but the excitement over writing is there. And I can’t change that.

Well I basically write, not because I like it, but because it is something I can get myself to dream of. I can dream when I write. I can see a future where people will read my posts. Where they would be FINALLY able to understand what I’ve been trying to say to them. Not like when I’m talking where I can’t edit what comes out of my mouth. I get to take time to choose my words and say them the way I want to in real life. It authenticates me.

My voice is loudest with the words I write. I am me when I write. That whole curated structure of mumbo jumbo is …me. Staged. Curated. Planned out. Me. The very essence of making sure that everything meshes together in the paragraphs just puts it all in a nutshell. All of me. In a fabricated representation of me. MEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Yeah. Just soak it all in. :)

Then it begins to go downhill. The whole article crumbles down because I’ve had my fill. Things start to lose sense. I start rambling on about whatever.

I become bored. Then all of a sudden I become uninterested altogether to carry on writing. To finish whatever is on my head.

But the rush of wanting to be heard is STILL there. I think it’s always going to be there. I think.  

But yeah, I’m down to my last few words. And I’m going to stop writing. But not before I tell you to write when you can. Be heard. Be read. Ride a pony. Hug a bear. Whatever. Just write it down.