I write because...

Sometimes I am afraid that I’ve been chasing the wrong dream for the entirety of my existence. Sometimes I am afraid that I’ve wasted away the beginning of my life, and will waste away the rest of it, wanting something, needing something, that will never happen. That was never meant to happen. I used to think that it was, I used to know that it was, but now I'm not so sure.

I admit it, sometimes I am afraid.

I am afraid because the feeling is gone now. That feeling I got when I first figured it all out. I felt so strong, that day. My life had direction, had meaning, had a point. I was hopeful and inspired and I’d never felt so alive in my entire life. I was meant to be a writer. In that second, I knew this without a doubt in the world. And for the first time in a long, long time, I was happy. More than happy. I was exhilarated, confident, sure of myself. And that made me glow.

I didn’t realize that that feeling was limited. I didn’t realize that it would go away. I thought it would always be there, warming my heart even in the darkest of moments and shining a light so bright that it was sure to chase away all of my doubts. I looked at my writing and it was beautiful and it was flawless and I just couldn’t believe I had written it. I was so proud. I’d never been proud of myself before. It was a feeling that I cherished for the short time that I had it.

And then, without warning or provocation, the darkness came. It was slow, yet merciless, and soon I found that that wonderful feeling had abandoned me to rot away into dust. I was no longer so inspired, no longer so talented. I looked at my work, my writing, and I hated it. Despised it. It was horrible, despicable, embarrassing. And then I looked at the creations of others and it made me want to cry. Because it was all so goddamn beautiful, and I knew I’d never be able to create something like that. I knew I’d never be able to make it. I had tricked myself into thinking I had a chance. And that feeling, the one that had felt so new and real and wonderful, was now only a lie. A lie. And the light that had shone from within me turned to fire. And it burned me. It burned me.

And now I was directionless. I had followed a single path for so long, worshiped it for so many happy days, and now it had sunken deep into the ground. Gone forever. Unfindable. The light that blinked to illuminate my way went out, and I was in blackness. Thick, cold, blackness. It was all so dark, all so silent. I couldn’t go on to my original destination, and neither could I find my way home. And so I just stood there, alone, looking around and finding nothing. Now that I had gone so far, I knew that I could never go back again. Even if I failed, even if I had to leave all my dreams behind, I knew deep down that I would always want to be a writer. I had come too far, crossed the border of no return. My life would never be the same.

And so I write. Even in the numbness, even in the blackness, I write. Even through the pain and the doubt and the fear. I write because I know I am nothing without it. I write because it makes me feel, if only for a moment, that the world has meaning. I write because words are the most beautiful, sacred things I could ever hope to witness, and the art of writing is to me the holiest of all skills. I write because even without that feeling that had pulled me so happily onto this path, I still love it far more deeply than I have ever loved anything in my entire life. I write because I hope that, one day, that feeling will come back. And I want to be there to greet it when it does. I want to be there the day that the light flickers back to life, even if it means waiting in the darkness.

I write because I am a writer. It’s as simple as that.