why DO i write?

just a self-reminder

i write because its what i’ve always done.

i write because it’s always what i run back to.

i write because when i was 5, i won 3rd place in an art contest—which doesn’t make sense until i say, there was a poem written in the back as an “explanation” (juuuuust in case the judges needed help for some zoo animals on an island).

i write because ive always wanted to. i write even when i don’t want to. i write when i’m depressed, i write when i’m happy, and i write when i don’t know how to feel about anything. i write to remember. i write to forget. i write so i can feel something. i write when i’m feeling too much. i write so i have something to look forward to on sundays every week. i write because this had always been my choice to make. i write to carve out pieces of myself, outside of the molds everyone told me to settle into. i write while i’m eating lunch. i write even when i can’t find the energy to cook dinner. i write because words need to be expelled. i write for nobody. i write for everybody. i write for myself. i write because in a world that demands convenience and instantaneity, writing is the most inconvenient and laborious act of defiance and love i can do.

i write for the 7 year old who got her poem displayed on the school bulletin board and thought she had everything figured out. i write for the 9 year old’s disappointment, poetry not chosen for her school’s centennial anniversary anthology, after having her hopes up by a teacher who had (mistakenly?) lied. i write for the 11 year old who applied for the literary section of the school paper, but got put as a news writer instead. i write for the 12 year old who used words that were “too big” for the student newspaper’s vocabulary. i write for the 14 year old who got told that she isn’t interesting enough to write feature articles and to focus on “just” news writing, instead. i write for the 15 year old who never thought she was good enough to compete in the national schools press conference for news writing, but somehow ending up being there anyways. i write for the 17 year old who had printed out a whole portfolio of her poetry, but was still put into news writing, because of her “credentials”. i write for the 19 year old who was crying on the phone, being told by her parents that her dream of pursuing journalism and creative writing was pure stupidity. i write for the 22 year old who wanted to die after her first heartbreak. i write for the 24 year old who kept writing anyways, and got a poem (a collab with her now girlfriend) published in a local sapphic anthology.

i write for that familiar rush that reminds me just why i do this. i write for the person i am now. i write for the person that was and will be. i write because maybe i really am just an observer of phenomena, and this journey taught me how to regurgitate facts into beautiful simplicity. i write because on a sunday morning, i am all those younger versions, yet, i am also still, becoming.