I write for myself.

I write for him.

I write for her.

I write for the hurting heart, I write for the lost soul.

I write to feel the emotions I’ve become numb to.

I write to speak the words my mouth is too afraid to say out loud.

I write to heal.

Because when the day is long, and my mind is running in circles, and my hands are frantically fidgeting, I’m able to silently scream my thoughts and watch them land into a perfectly organized pile of worded art.

Because when I’m told "no," when I’m told to "try better next time," when I’m told "don't give up," I’m able to finally have a voice and speak for myself.

Because when I see pain, love, or confusion in someone else’s eyes, I am able to put myself into their shoes and create a story rooted in reality.

I write to fall in love. No, not a Romeo & Juliet type love, but a type of love for creativity that is made strong through simple words that were at first just scribbled onto a piece of scrap paper.

However, each word I write does lead to a better understanding of why I do. Each word seems to spark a small flame inside of me that is waiting to explode into a beautiful firework display of many more words.

So maybe it’s that spark that continues to fuel my itch to write collections of words I sometimes don’t even understand the meaning of. Or maybe it’s much simpler, I’m not sure. But, whatever it is, I’m happy it’s a mystery. It’s a mystery only I can solve and something tells me the answer will be found in nothing other than writing.