Short and sweet with a heart of stone

Here is my response to the "why do you write?" question:

Writing is about fears, excitements, and fantasy. It's about finding, growing, and distrust. It's about testing and feeling and kissing and loving. I take the time to capture the moments. I try to paint the moments. The beauty. The ugly. The greed. The love. The hate. It's the glow in the shadows. Some days I write for hours on end, never knowing what I have written until it is finished. The beauty and the horrific ugliness of this obsession are, at times, overwhelming, but I continue. Why do I write? Why do you breathe? It's a need. But in a way, it's not really that simple. Simplicity doesn't really exist in the world of writing. My need, my obsession, my outlet, my being, has grown impeccably from a mere hobby to what I want to dedicate my life to. Maybe I'm addicted. All I know is I have to do it for myself, and no one else.

Writing makes my world disappear. It takes me to other places, other dimensions, other galaxies I create. Sometimes they're seemingly perfect, but underneath the surface they are deranged and twisted. But even all of the imperfections make them perfect to me. Why? Because they are mine, my own. My ideas, and to quote Golem, “my precious”. Yet means so much more to me. It's my light, my depth, my loves, and that one side that you may never see on my surface, but underneath is a whole other story… For you see, I put my very essence into what I write.

It's everything I love; yet everything I hate. I can feel the words itching to be released from the corners of my brain. I need the words. I believe in all the places writing takes me. I couldn't live without it. I need writing for it's who I am and who I'll never be. It brings me experiences that I would otherwise never have the chance to, well, experience. It brings me everything I want, and opens doors that haven’t been opened, or have not been visited in quite a long time. Most of the doors to ideas I see are old and warping. They are sometimes made of wood, sometimes of steel, and are rarely easy to open. Sometimes I find myself in front of a door that is too rusted to be opened, I hope that with time, the rust will eat away at the hinges and those precious few will swing open.

I can feel it even after I close my eyes. I dream about writing; it brings me to a place between reality and fantasy. A place where time is measured by paragraphs and pages, not days, hours, minutes, or seconds. It binds me to reality while at the same time letting me drift into fantasy. It holds me content. It ensures me. It provides me with everything nothing else can. I need it. I depend on it. To me, it's like having a child and watching it grow from age 1 till it’s all grown up, and sometimes they'll have children of their own... But instead of years I have pages, and when it's "grown up" is when the story is finished, at least for a time, and their children are sequels and the story continuing after it's over.

The distrust. The loyalty. The love. The hate. The strategy. The randomness.



That's all I need… That’s all I want… Sometimes, that’s all I understand.



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