Why (I Write)
New York City, March 6, 2007:
I busted out a new notebook today.
And since today is a new day I am celebrating by writing in my new notebook.
Thus, I write to celebrate.
I also write to stay sane. To remain cogent and cognizant, aware and alive—to survive the boredom.
Sometimes it is hard to believe that it is a new day when everyday you sit in the same cube day in and day out; when some days you just want to shout “Ugh!” It has been almost eight years now that I’ve kept quiet.
Hence, I also write to escape the ennui, as well as subsequently express, excise and exorcise the pent-up frustrations of the day.
I write to dream, and aspire to some day (soon) make these dreams come true. Make-believe is good for you, but make-true is better. We are in control of our lives, after all.
I write because I am a writer; fate conscribed me so. Thus, it is the one facet of my life that I allow myself to believe is truly destined to be.
I write to reminisce—languid limbs, heavy hearts, lost souls, and many stolen kisses; and I write to remember the loves I’ve lost. I write to capture the vestiges of these memories, to mark with words the perfect moments of what is otherwise ineffable, mostly ephemeral hours of pure glee gained in the wake of loving—wakes that make you want to live underwater forever, that make you want to succumb and be taken interminably in their undertow, that make you want to wade forever in the safe crest that lines the shore of the diurnal doldrums.
I also write to forget. To forgive, to understand and accept upon reflection, to comprehend the foibles of others, as well as the raucous fallacy of my own being—we are all merely human after all; writing about the comedy and tragedy of life allows me to accept both, allows me to laugh and cry as need be.
Therefore, I write to feel as well. A lot of people I know don’t allow themselves to feel—they’re too afraid of what these emotions might steal from them; they fear what it means to love, to laugh, to live, howl and sigh (sigh); they fear the judgment of others, they fear rejection and a lack of reciprocation; they don’t want to be hurt again—in turn, they close up, cloister their hearts and pose a callus turn to the world sometimes, if not, often—in other words, they are merely human.
I guess than, I also write to open up (to others); to be courageous and undaunted; to be free of the stymieing, stagnating inhibitions of past and present anxieties. In other words I write to try and earnestly be me, honestly, wholly, unapologetically. I also write to be accessible, because ultimately I write to be read. And I write to inspire the same in others—mettle, aspiration, sentiment.
Moreover, I write to be open-minded and optimistic. For it is easy to be cynical—it takes a lot more courage and strength to remain positive.
In other words, I write to celebrate, because life is nothing less than wonderful.
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