I sought to feel.
I confused my emotions for people with the ideas I had of them.
I remember falling for someone
because they were to themselves. Their obscureness brought me great determination.
I had about a million little daydreams about the idea of them every single day.
l remember my mother lecturing me about how I do not believe in the idea of lifetime fidelity.
I have yet to believe it to be true. Nothing is true, really.
I heard a poem about how we as people often try to make homes out of each other.
I guess we are all looking for somewhere to feel like we belong, and–Oh!–I was asked to prepare some sort of speech for a prompt that had to do with learning to commit or something. I never yawned so long in my entire life.
I hated being told what to write about. I didn’t prepare any sort of prose or poetry. Instead, I read three new philosophy books I had laying around, I learned how to make a cake from scratch, and I helped paint my friend’s room a pastel orange. I loved learning things on my own and at my own pace. Teachers either didn’t understand that concept of didn’t accept it.
Maybe they weren’t given that opportunity. I realized that I was living the poetry I could not necessarily write all at once.
Yesterday, a woman in her early twenties approached me and said, “I heard you’re a good writer.” I stared blankly at her, wondering what response she expected from me.
I started to open my mouth until she said, “Well, why do you want to be a writer?” I folded my arms and looked down. Why do I want to be a writer? I repeated this question in my head.
Why do I want to be a writer…
Why do I want to do anything? Why do I want to breathe? Why do I believe in certain things, and why do I disbelieve in others? Why anything?
The question on WHY I want to do the things I love always made me freeze. I don’t know why.
I feel like in that moment I am obligated to give a five star answer, an answer that will put people in awe and respect me a little more. The truth is, I am not completely sure why I write.
I have the general idea of it being my passion, it being my company in isolation, the thing I’ve depended on since I was six years old. Do I have time to share the time I used to carry around a journal at six, calling it my “only friend”? Or, maybe, the time I cried for three hours straight and, after writing in my journal, stopped immediately? I used to call my journal Magical because it had done so much for me.
I even begged Magical to grant me a brother or sister so that I wouldn’t be “lonely when I grew up.” There are days, however, where I do not feel like a writer. There are times where I run out of ideas to write, times where my I cannot give a good answer to my Literature teacher’s question, times where I question whether or not I’m a good enough writer.
I remember my teacher asked me why I wanted to be a writer when I was in the ninth grade, and before I could even answer, someone in my class shouted, “because she’s an only child with no one else to talk to.” I got laughed at, and it is one of the reasons why I struggled to take my writing seriously. Another time my dad asked me why I wanted to write. “It’s my passion,” I said, and he told me that most writers struggle to pursue a career, so I shouldn’t depend on writing. “Did you hear me?” The woman asked. I nodded.
“To answer your question,“ I started. "I don’t know. I write for many reasons. I write for the sake of the story: there’s just a fun feeling I get when I am writing and it turns into this really cool story. A story that not only others can relate to, but a story people can enjoy. It’s a beautiful thing, y'know, getting lost in a story and letting it direct you. I write so that I remember the dark times I endure and I know that, although I thought it was the end, I overcame it. Writing is my master plan, my medication, my medicine.
I write to share the wordy medicine with others. I write to grieve. I write to remember to love myself always. And, most of all, I write because it is all I know. I do not just write for me, but for we, creatively.“