xx-R
Dear whomever I let read
this,
So many people ask me
why I write, and I could never answer them.
Well now I can.
A writer is supposed to be a
tortured soul—the man who lost it all. When I sit down to write, I always think
this. My moments, my memories, my days and seconds leading up to where I am
today have left me untouched, unscarred, and unmemorable. There is not a single moment of my personal
life that I can think of that holds enough importance that it needs written out.
No memory too horrible it needs its own story. I am a privileged, white middle class,
American girl. My life did not shape me to become a writer, yet here I am. I sit and I write, and I erase, and I write
again. I pour myself into paper after
paper hoping something meaningful will fill the pages. This however, has not
been the case. It’s not that I’m not filled with words and ideas I believe to have
purpose, quite the opposite actually. I think words are filled with too much
importance and I don’t want to mess them up.
Sometimes the words in my head are painful. It’s like this little part
in the back of my head can’t breathe unless I get my string of thoughts turned
into words and pushed out of my mind. It’s strange; being filled with words you
are unable transfer onto paper. The words, the meanings, the moments, they are
all in my head growing, yelling, and fighting to get out—to get onto paper. Most
of the time I don’t act fast enough to get my thoughts turned into words and
then the moment is lost. Those are my bad moments. Those are the moments when
the commotion inside my head is louder than I can bear. I have no idea if this
is normal or if I’m mentally unstable, but either way, it happens. I can get
them anytime, anywhere, no matter what I’m doing. If you pay attention you can
tell when I’m in this state, I get very silent and don’t act like the bubbly
person everyone has come to know me as. I take the phrase “being in another
world” to a new level. The worst
episodes are when I see or hear something particularly beautiful; maybe snow
falling onto a quiet city or a cello piece that makes your mind wander. Moments
when this world seems to be as beautiful as it could ever be are when my head
wants to explode the most.
That is why I’m a writer. I’m not a writer because I have a personal
story to tell, I’m not a writer to share my pain with the world, nor am I a
writer because my soul is tortured. I’m a writer for those moments. The moments
that are so beautiful that my head can’t keep them as a memory for itself. I’m
a writer to share the beauty left in the world, because every moment that makes
your heart flutter is one to be remembered.
I write because I have
to, it’s inside me.
R.
