I write to express myself, to live with the knowledge that nobody will ever read it. I write to find comfort in the small joys of ink on a page, words on a screen. I write to feel things, do things, that I could not have done in this life. I write to keep it all from falling apart. And yet it falls anyway, like the leaves in autumn, withered, cold, dead, unfeeling, and yet it burns, like a raging wildfire, all-consuming. It all falls apart, and yet, still, I write because nothing else will keep me sane in this world. I write for the sight of words dancing along the page. I write to tether me to a world of which I can only dream, to grant me an escape when escape is due. I write to run away from my problems. But they never stop chasing me. I will run, and run, and run, and yet still they chase, unceasing, like a predator stalking its prey. And so, I write more relentlessly, more furiously, in an effort to leave them behind. Until the writing is no longer a joy, but a daily ritual of pain and torture. And yet, I still write, because it’s the only thing I can do.
