Why I Write

I write...

Two words, one pronoun and one verb. Maybe, in the construction of sentences, it is just one statement consisting of a doer and an action that is done but to a writer, it is a thousand small pieces of self, of reasons, both known and unkown, of things that are or that is and what-was-then's and of what-might-be's. So let me get you into the common uncommonness of writing... which is the adventure of finding the light amidst the abysmal black hole.

The following are the reasons why I write: (the known ones)

I write because I hurt and because I'm wounded. The thing that I could only use either as a weapon or as medicine, are words for me or for somebody else’s pain. I could only use a string of words to try to sew something back together or hang myself in a metaphorical death.

I write because of madness. That thing sulking in the corners of my mind, creeping among the shadows of my darkness, my hate of what I am, was, is and all of the world that causes hurt. The insanity lurking of possibilities of what I could do, of what I could be.

I write because of hope. The smallest speck, a particle, a pebble of prayer that no matter how small it is, I know, that it would cause some ripples. I hope.

I write because of guilt. This and all the thousands and millions of words I've spilled on pieces of paper, were, at some point, an atonement of the things I’ve done.

I write because of passion. That burning urge to construct a word out of letters, a sentence out of words, a paragraph out of sentences, a poem, an essay, a story, a novel... something... just to make something borne out by ideas, ideals, thoughts, realities and fantasies and a hundred more contradictions and comparisons.

I write because of death. I am not afraid to die but this mere fact of morality programmed to my human system pushes me, urges me, to at least, leave a speck of legacy which may not last but which may help mould something that is good. I can only hope.

I write because I am afraid. I fear of being too afraid to commit mistakes, to use the wrong words or ingredients which are true about my ability in cooking. I, however, am hopeful that my writing is not as bad as my cooking. (You may laugh)

And lastly, I write simply because I am. I am 70% liquid and 30% solid and the rest of me is made up of broken toys and dreams, burnt food and disappointments, procrastinating cells cheering for the Great Law of Procrastination to be pushed into the Senate, and cells of wordiness. And yes, I know I suck at math just as I suck at living and cooking so do not attempt to lecture me about the summation of seventy and thirty.