I write to feel the scratch of pen against paper. I write to see my words, scrawled in spidery black, pink, purple, and blue cursive across the paper, marching in […]
I write to feel the scratch of pen against paper. I write to see my words, scrawled in spidery black, pink, purple, and blue cursive across the paper, marching in a line from some beginning to some unknown end.
I write because it brings me closer to that feeling I have no name for, that place I can’t identify, that memory I can’t quite put my finger on. I write because it sends blood to my heart and sets it aflutter.
I write because I’d rather be watching a movie, reading a book, taking a walk—anything but this fruitless struggle. I write for the power of possibility it fills me with.
I write to see what happens, whether I’ll stop or keep going. I write to try out a new pen, to start a new notebook. I write to hear my own voice. I write to sink down into myself, past the place of inhibitions, past my protestations, past my fear.
I write to feel the emotions that so often lie dormant in me. I write to prove to myself that I can, to prove to myself that I want it bad enough.
I write for the beauty of the written word, heavy in ink and the human experience.
I write for my tired hand, my knotted knuckles, because it’s worth it. I write to remember what I may have forgotten, and to learn how to fill in the blanks.
I write as a way of laying down breadcrumbs, creativity a trail that will lead me to a magical land. I write because I want to believe in fairy tales and the capacity for something magical in this world.
I write to connect with people, but more so myself. I write to feel the tingle in my toes, the gooseflesh across my skin, my racing heart. I write for love of thought and knowledge, and the quest to know all I can about this existence, and to imagine stories about what I can never know.
I write as a promise to myself that this is right for me, this explains my character, this is who I am. I write to fill the page, and to turn the pages until the notebook is full. I write to practice, to learn to trust whatever may come.
I write to show my respect for the beauty of writing, its place in human history, its connection to the world, the universe. I write to ask questions.
I write to slow down, to teach myself to breathe, to feel what it is to be alive, now, with this pen in my hand. I write so that later I can go back and know my thoughts.
I write to find my way into a story. I write to wake up, to feel, smell, see, hear, taste my senses. To know the world and the energy inside every living thing.
I write to understand. I write to appreciate that I can write, that I can read, that I am so lucky to call these things my pastimes, my interests. I write so that I can write some more.