It isn’t so much of a want—it’s a need, almost as vital as it is to breathe. I write because words swirl in my mind like a tornado and they have no place to go except the page. Otherwise they keep spinning and twirling around. If they don’t go somewhere, they remain in a whirlwind. On the outside I might not seem dizzy or in need of space to pause, but on the inside those words don’t go away, they make my mind their home until they find some other safe haven to live in.
I write because I experience life and the world with an attachment to all things, observing every little detail. I do so as if writer is encrypted in my DNA. I can’t help myself. I don’t tell my heart to beat, yet it does, and I don’t tell myself to feel as deeply as I do, yet I do.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so sensitive, so easily hurt by what I see in the world, both on the news and sometimes what I witness. Maybe that’s why I started adopting a New Romantic view, to make a conscious effort to choose beauty in a world of ugliness. My mentor says writing is resistance. I write, not to resist my feelings, but to allow them the space to be when oftentimes culture encourages a hindrance of their presence. In leaning into my emotions I resist conformity. I am liberated and my feelings are welcome to any and every conversation. I can choose to let reason dictate my decisions, thinking rationally in day-to-day life, while my feelings have a say by being transmitted to a poem or story or essay. I write because without it, the endless sea of words that are a result of my emotions are lost without the simple practice of holding a pen in my hand, or rapidly typing away. I write both because I need to, and I love it.
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