Time and again

I find myself wondering why writers write. What is it that makes us gather words and attempt to weave them into coherence, sometimes even against their will?I can’t speak for all writers, but for me three words come to mind- To make sense. Of things/people/events/the world. Not to others, but to myself.

When in confusion, writing for me is a journey I need to undertake to arrive at understanding, to chance upon an emotion that might help, to slowly dust away what’s unnecessary and view the skeleton of the answers I seek.

On some days it’s a way to reel in my thoughts before they swim away so I can make a meal out of it and share it with those I love. However, on most days it’s a struggle to keep the light burning, it’s an antidote to the fear of not feeling anything anymore. It forces me to scoop out unspoken memories from the crevices of my mind and then pluck words to weave into a bouquet for them as I send them out. At the end of the day it’s making sure that the world doesn’t see my real thoughts naked. It is allowing myself to confront and choose the beautiful and the ugly within me which I can then dress in words, groom with metaphors, and present to the world with no shame or remorse.

This journey might be smooth or perilous. On the way I might chance upon emotions within I was unaware of. I might accidentally trip on parts of myself that I realise I don’t like very much. Or worse, I could lose myself to the journey and never make it out. But on other days, the better ones, I might arrive, weary and worn, but victorious; having battled my inner demons, knowing something I didn’t know before.