Sometimes, I find myself at a loss for words.

My family and friends always jokingly feign surprise,

That the one who always has to have the last word,

The one with the vocabulary of a thesaurus,

Might be unable to find something to say.

But sometimes a feeling hits me.

It may be because of a movie,

Or a song,

Or simply the twists and turns of my own thoughts,

But all the same,

An idea will arise.

An idea will arise,

Strong emotion behind it,

And it will bloom and blossom and grow within the confines of my mind,

Until my head feels full to bursting.

It is then that I write.

I write to express every part of myself.

I write to tell the stories of things that have happened,

And of things that never will.

I write my own stories and emotions,

And the stories and emotions of others.

I write to express the truth,

Both as I see it and as I think others might.

I write to understand myself and others,

To feel self-awareness and empathy.

Most of what I have written hasn’t been seen by anyone’s eyes but my own.

It’s stored away,

On USBs, and computer hard drives and scraps of paper and the margins of notebooks.

I write to understand both others and myself.

I write to be understood,

But more by myself than anyone else.

I do enjoy when people read my words.

I enjoy seeing people feel what I wish to express,

Knowing that I have done what I wished to accomplish,

But that is not my main purpose.

Their praise,

Though welcome and gratifying in the deepest way,

Is not what I seek.

I write to understand myself

I write to quiet my thoughts,

And to bring life to my ideas.

I write for self-awareness,

And I write for peace.