At first,

I wrote because,

They told me to.

I thought that I should and I found out that I could and so that was it. I declared myself

 a Writer.

Grouping words together to provoke an exclamation, or stir up a sensation, essentially, writing for the adoration.

And so write I did, but I never could see.

 And then one day, it dawned upon me to take my words and

read

Them.

To see

Them.

And something changed. Where before I would glance at my paper and throw it away once I saw the “A”, my attention

 was held fast.

 You see, the words that I had put on the page spoke back to me—and I would have heard this earlier if I had been listening—but yes, the words I had put on the page spoke back to me, and they said

“Create.”

And that was it. Words became more than a means to an end of a good grade.

And I was writing for me. And I was sharing my dreams. And I was learning how to use my wings.

But I didn’t expect flying to be so tiring.

 My imagination ran faster than my pencil, and I was content

 to let the world live on inside my head instead of on a page.

Because I realized that writing would cost me my most valuable currency.

It would cost me

Time.

And I wanted to spend it on other things. And my pockets were soon empty because I let it be stolen from me. Taken by the silent thief of/being too lazy/to turn off the TV.

It was a world of deceit, a smiling enemy who would take my time and return nothing.

And so I would consume. And there was less and less contributing. It was just the media and me, being told when to laugh, when to cry, how to speak.

So my pencils remained sharp as my mind became dull/taking a spectator’s seat to the things of this world.

And then one day, as I was moving my mouth to pass the time away ,I realized,

these were not my words.

And there was a strong conviction, an intuition, that if I felt inclined to speak, I should at least agree with what I was saying/but all I could hear were recycled ideals.

It struck me.

I had been living in someone else’s story without paying attention to my own.

I was the surrogate brain for someone else’s dreams.

And I had forgotten. I had forgotten my need to discover things.

The need to decide what makes me move

And the reasons why I do what I do.

And now I write. Because it helps me see

whether my thoughts are pre-packaged notions or someone else’s beliefs.

It helps me to fight

against blindly accepting ideas that are not mine.

And so.

If we sat at a table with just pencil and paper and you asked me that question, I would scribble three things.

Why do I write?

I write to create. I write to be freed. I write to remember the world that I see.