I write because I am human, and what distinguishes us from other animals is our ability to use written language to connect, to communicate, and to say “You are not alone.”
I write because sometimes life doesn’t make any damn sense, and if I set words down on paper, they become tiny building blocks, verbal Legos, building meaning out of chaos brick by brick.
I write because sometimes my true soul is lost in a lonely landscape, and only by writing my words down and sticking whole essays into bottles bouncing on the waves can I reach out and know that I am not alone.
I write because sometimes it is 2AM and the words are pounding on the inside of my skull like tribal drums. They demand I set them free, give them ink and paper and watch them dance.
I write to explore the landscapes inside my head, the connections between thoughts, the chimeras made by one idea bumping too hard into another. I write to explore these lands and the beasts that live within.
And when I feel like an automaton, just sleepwalking through life, I write because when I am too busy to write, I am too busy to invest my life with meaning. I do not sleep, I do not live, unless I am also creating meaning with my words.
I write because memory is frail, and ideas merely soap bubbles popping on the shards of reality. I write to capture soap bubbles, chain them together, and turn them into a powerful cable that can winch something new into existence.
And I write in honor of all the writers who have gone before, in their memory and by the light of their inspiration. The spark they have created simply will not die.