I write because that is how I become less arrogant. The purpose is to alleviate soreness towards a friend who constantly bothers me with negligence. I write so that I can craft harsh words onto a string of delicacy, onto a stream of comfort rather than animosity.
I write because it makes me more selfless. I can write by way of resolving conflict through analyzing a written piece rather than allowing words to roll off my tongue like spears spewing out with ignorance.
I write to paint a picture. A picture with sounds like a simple fan shaking from years of whirring in circles to serve its given purpose. A picture with my favorite smells like smooth butter laying on a butter knife, awaiting its destination atop toasty Dutch bread. The pictures which remind me of my childhood, one so innocent and unforgettable as I sat on the porch watching the sun melt like wax to the pastel blues and oranges and violets against the massive hills I grew up next to. Small, creamy-white, tic-tac teeth that craved carrot cake so curiously. I write like this so that I can reflect on such a time of purity and sweetness.
When I finish writing, I read it. I reflect on my life like a dirty tin box recycled into a time capsule; filled with memories of pain, triumph, humor, and happiness. Then I close the cover and I am quiet for a moment. I write this way, and I cure my cluelessness on how I was able to begin in a place of hopelessness into a gratuitous surrounding of wonder and succession.
I write to change people. I have written all these years so that I can inspire my elementary school sisters to travel with their head up high. They are able to see my mistakes, and how you can overcome them. I am grateful, because what I write has inspired them to write with me.