The Reason I Write

Endless possibilities. That’s what lays on the clean slate of “Document 1” on my computer. You see, I’ve always been a writer but it’s the process of writing that I’ll never understand. I never understand how words flow from the pinballs in my brain and down through these veins of mine into the fingertips that cha-cha across my keyboard. I just can’t explain it. The conversation in my head doesn’t always translate to paper as elegantly as the queen entering a room, sometimes it’s more of the pile up crash on route 90 in a snowstorm. Nevertheless, both are there, happen, and are significant.

That’s all life really is. A series of significant moments, filled with fleeting moments strung together with so many emotions. That is why I write. I try to capture the snapshots in my brain and make them into something tangible. I try to make them into something I can have in front of me and feel as smooth as the keyboard under my hands.

But how can I expect to make someone feel my words? How can someone feel my heart race and stomach flip when the music came on and it was time to preform my first spotlight dance? How can I make someone feel how cold the tears were or how salty they tasted as they hit my lips as they rushed down my face the first time I was scared of my depression? How can words make someone understand the pure exhilaration I feel every time I fly and feel the plane take off? That’s why I will never understand how writing just happens. I can’t explain why I translate a memory that could wash away with the tide into something so concrete it’ll transcend time.

I don’t have any lofty unattainable dreams. I just dream to make others feel more. I dream what I love to do, that my writing somehow resonates with someone. That it might unexpectedly slip into their doorway and make them remember how it felt to be in love for the first time. Or maybe it hits them like a runaway train, flooding their mind with emotions they didn’t know they’ve been suppressing.

Maybe it’s because I’m prone to feeling so much. How lucky am I though? Because when I was sixteen I remember striving to feel nothing, and I accomplished that numbness for a good period of time. So how lucky am I to be so in-tune with myself and emotions again? How lucky am I to be able to shoot the bullets in my mind onto this paper?

Some people don’t ever share their stories, and that’s fine. I, on the other hand, share almost all of my experiences because sometimes life is just so overwhelming. Overwhelmingly beautiful, overwhelmingly difficult, overwhelmingly interesting. I used to always say my thoughts are on fire, just burning to come out. I can’t explain how this filled “Document 1” but I know this is the start of my wildfire.