Why do I write?

Writing has always been my survival instinct; it’s encoded in my DNA. Writing is what I turn to when all else has failed, when it’s the end of the day and it’s dark and there’s no one around. It has been a way to simultaneously escape and bring me back, to get lost and to find my way home.

Sometimes I’m like a broken mirror: not really great at reflecting. I write to pick up the pieces, I suppose, and glue them all back together so I can see myself clearly again. Sure, it’s fragmented and not too clear, but some of the broken shards throw rainbows in the sunlight, and I’ve always thought of myself as many parts of a whole anyway.

I write to heal. Writing down how I feel has always been bandaging new wounds, letting old ones breath, ice packs on swollen ankles and soft lights for headaches; it’s how I honor the pain and the person I was, but acknowledge that all pain is temporary and I am who I am now. And I can grow so much.

I write to remember. I have journals full of bent corners with scribbled dates and descriptions on them, pages and pages describing one night, a thousand napkins and scratch papers with just one or two words on them, kept in books and all but forgotten until I’ve decided to read again.

I write to process. I write to explore. Sometimes, I write because I am told to.

Always, I am writing to survive.


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