Why I write
On May 14th, 1991, I was born into a world I did not know, understand, and could not fathom. From my very first breath, this world was a place of mystery, challenges, joy, sadness, experience, lust, loathing, and inconsistencies. While trying to make sense of this world, I lived inside my head. I narrated and questioned and wondered and screamed and struggled with what was around me, silently; behind the confines of the cranium. Then one day, I was given that power you cannot bear to explain – not without being overwhelmed by joy. That power that brought pen to paper, thoughts to words, and questions to answers. That power, so abstract yet so real. The power of language. And now, when faced with questions or fears or excitement or love or confusion, I can use that power as a guide. Writing, to me, has always been the fruition of thought – the conclusion to a long drive. When something is ready to be put down in writing, even this essay, it means my brain, my body and my soul have all grasped it in a way that allowed me to project it to you, the reader. I write because I can, because I would probably go insane – lost in thoughts and forgetfulness – if I couldn’t. I write about the things I love, the things I’ve seen and the things I want to see. Sometimes I write for the reader, but mostly, I write for me.
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