Why I Write

As this piece of work (essay, prose poem, journal entry-- how is one to refer to this?) is a mere assignment, I will make an effort to avoid becoming too wrapped up in the grandeur of the manifesto that the title of the assignment implies. That being said, this may be the first time I have ever seriously considered the question "Why do you write?" and I do intend to try and answer that with honesty, which may result in some rather lofty prose. We will see how it turns out.

I write because its fun. I write because its one of the few things I have every felt truly good at. I write because of word jumbles and puzzles and equations in my head that I have to solve before I can sleep. I write because there are some things that I cannot speak. I write in order to relieve my mind of the thoughts that pester me. I write so that I can remember who I was yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I write so that there will be a record of my short and relatively inconsequential life - my thoughts, my friends, the people who have influenced the person I am becoming - for those who care to read it, just in case I disappear into some obscure rabbit hole someday. I write to document the mundane and the massive. I write to imagine the lives of the old couple down my street, what they say to each other while they plant flowers, how they hold each other while they sleep. I write to try and get outside myself, and, if only for a moment, to expel the demon of self-centeredness that can control me. I write because, sometimes, I have to, and not in the puffed-up, driving, unavoidable, "I was born to write and can do nothing else" sense that that phrase implies; I literally have to in order to make the grade. I write to learn. I write because I read. I write so that I have to research and expose myself to other ways of thinking, believing, loving, and living. I write the way I dream, working out problems in my subconscious that my conscious self does not want to deal with. I write to relate to others. I write to inspire others. I write to inspire myself. Some days, I write to get myself out of bed when nothing else can convince me that the day is worth living. I write so my mom will know I love her. I write so my dad will know I still need him. I write so my family will know I am thankful for them. I write to dig up my roots. I write so I can hear the sound of words penned simply because they are beautiful. I write because of the path laid out for me by poets, novelists, journalists, essayists, critics, and the daily diary authors of the past. I write to affirm the fleeting gift of life, so that perhaps one day, somebody, even if that body is me, will pick up something I have written and think, "I want to live today."