WHY I WRITE

Why I Write

I wrote once, so I write again. I did it then, so why should I not do it now?

Why shouldn’t I put pen to paper and let a thousand, thousand words spring forth? Why shouldn’t I let my thoughts bleed onto the paper? Why shouldn’t I let the goblins in my head out to wreak havoc?  Why shouldn’t I play god, even for just a moment? Why shouldn’t I erase the world and start again? Why shouldn’t I balance life and death on the tip of my pen? Why shouldn’t I rent out my brain to complete strangers? Why shouldn’t I write nightmares into dreams, reality into fantasy?

I write out of pure animalistic instinct, as natural as breathing, as unnatural as falling. It is part of me, so why should I suppress it? Why should I lock my mind away if I can let the door swing wide open? Why should I sleep, when the words are ready to be written? Why should I let a tree die in vain, when instead, I could write a novel? Why should I paint a picture, when I could write a thousand words? Why should I be sensible, when madness is but a word away? Why should I swing a sword, when words can start a revolution? Why should I tell you of a breeze, when I can write you a hurricane? Why should I die one death, when I can die a dozen? Why should I live one life, when I could live a hundred?

Why should I do anything else, when this is all I need?