Writing. My love.

If you are a writer, then you know. We are all one weird bunch of people. We love words. Sometimes, we love others, men or women. But maybe, we love them a bit less. And we certainly fill up pages with our words, and these matter.

It has been some time since I asked myself why I write. Doing so is not a profession to me but over time, I developed the skill. Since the beginning, I love writing but in the process, I also forgot why I want to write. Why is it so satisfying to put all the thoughts into paper and then into a word document? It offers a sense of completeness. Even now, I enjoy writting this passage.

The pleasure of writing is not hidden in the possible recognition. I do not mind being recognized among a few good people. I do not care if my words are appreciated by those close to me. The best writings are those you do not wish to share with anybody else. There are always those thoughts you keep to yourself. You might put them on paper or type them out. And you do so because you are looking for some sense in all of your thoughts. Afterall, the mind can get so clogged with stuff. Thoughts about people you fight to forget, memories of the past you wish to keep. It all begins with the mind because that is the place where the emotions are stored through memories. Good and bad ones.

Personally, I write to understand my own feelings and reactions. I write because I seek to make sense of others’ reactions to me. I write so I will not forget.

Why do you write?