Because I Write

I write because it is the only way I know how to express my thoughts.

Whenever I open my mouth to speak my words sort of just tumble out. A blurring of incoherent phrases and misinterpreted sounds. I prefer to place my trust on ink and paper instead of on my own tongue. I realize how ridiculous that may sound, but writing has become a source of security for me.

I write because it calms me when I am feeling low. I write even when my excitement is blown haphazardly through the roof.

I write because my voice often fails me, and I am not often heard. I have many a time experienced being overrun and over talked; my voice is sometimes just too low and sometimes just too soft. A clanging blast of bells sounding in the distance lingers like a dull ring and leaves a dissonant taste in my mouth. I talk louder, and the noise still drowns me out.

I am the girl who has so much to say but never makes a sound.

I write because sometimes I become overwhelmed with the passing of time, so I snuggle up with a journal and a pencil in bed and I freeze time with just a simple stroke of my hand. Those are the bittersweet moments in which I put my anxiety to rest.

I write because sometimes I have nothing better to do. I like being alone quite often, but the silence hurts when no one is talking. I realize that my mind tends to run on autopilot when I am stuck sitting in a quiet space.

I write because it is necessary for my survival.

If I don’t write out my emotions—subconsciously cleaning out the dirt and grime that has been collecting in my brain—then that trash tends to pile up and make it harder to see the beauty underneath. Without that little glimmer of hope and that formation of a dream, I tend to fall into periods of procrastination and inactivity.

I write because it allows me to control my own reality.

I’ve learned that on paper I can play between fact and fiction as I see fit, without having to wallow in too much shame if I decide to bend a truth just a teensy little bit. That little ounce of control keeps me sane, and it brings a small layer of comfort to the wounds left behind by neglect.

I write because I am seen but never heard. Writing gives a voice to my nerves and helps me get a little bit closer to breaking that hereditary curse.

I write because it is the only way to communicate with a younger version of myself. She takes up a large corner of my consciousness, sometimes crawling out of the darkness to lend a helping hand. She acts as a tour guide, gliding so gracefully over pages and pages; bubbling over with youth, joy, and innocence.

We talk through the dotting of I’s and the crossing of T’s.

I’ve never felt more alive than when it’s just me and her, and her and me. I write because…I’m happy.

I write because…I’m sad.

I write because…I’m lonely.

I write because…I’m mad.

I write because…I have to.

I write because…I can.

I write because I was not born with a silver spoon in my hand, but because I write I’ve created my own golden pen.