I write because

I write because I can't always speak everything that I have in my mind.

I have a big working mind, I believe.

A big over-thinking one, actually.

I don't always express that side to most people because they easily start complaining about it. Previously, I thought it's my fault. Why do I have to keep repeating things on the same line of activities? Why can't I just let some things go? Every person couldn't bear that but the pages did. They bore every pressure that my pen put on them. Happy. Sad. Overwhelming. Frustrated. Euphoric. Stunned. Musical. Anything. I could shed off all my envelopes among those sheets. 

Okay, there were a few people who listened to me. I did have some great people in my life (I am convinced to believe that). But they didn't/couldn't always understand what I truly meant from my words. Debates and arguments cropped up. There were days when I wasn't very confident about the words I spoke. Again, pages helped. They bled to my cacophony without any rhyme or reason. Quiet, sundry creatures. I could go on and on with them. They never pointed out any mistakes and remained so receptive. I could kneel down on them at the end of every single day when I wanted to say but didn't want to listen back. I could be myself with - selfishly and guiltless. That's a feeling I can treasure every day. 

And that's why I write. And unless the day I speak- this will remain my most honest form of expression.