October 28, 2013- Happy 27th Birthday to me!
Twenty-seven. I’ve spent the past week reflecting on my
twenty-sixth year. For most of the year, I was really focused on my career,
trying to find my place and my role in an ever-changing environment. After four
positions with the same company, I think I’m finally doing something that makes
me really happy. With that being said, and with the time I have spent trying to
get myself in a really good place in life, it is finally time to turn my
attention back to the one thing I might love a little bit more than life
itself. Writing.
So this year, I’ve decided to make twenty-seven the year of
the written word.
Why do I write?
I write because I feel a hundred emotions passing through my
body at every given moment.
I write because I experience a thousand places I want to go,
a thousand foods I want to try, a thousand people I want to meet.
I write because I can’t go to a thousand places or try a
thousand foods or meet a thousand people. There isn’t enough time to be the
doctor, the lawyer, the dancer, the musician. Not in one lifetime. A piece of
me burns with intense passion to be great at all of those things.
I write because words take me everywhere I want to be. They
transform my simple and ordinary life into one that breathes life into people,
it moves and inspires them.
I write because sometimes what I want to say and what I
actually say are two completely different things. The words that come out of my
mouth just don’t make sense. But when I write it, the words dance off the page
with a certain beauty, eloquence and grace.
I write because I need all the wildly running colors of my
imagination to bleed from my mind onto the paper.
I write because a part of me knows I’ll never be that great
at guitar and I’ll never find the cure for cancer. But I still want to be, I
still pretend that I can.
I write because “me” isn’t “me” without a laundry list of
hobbies that I pretend to know something about.
I write because I am crazy to think that I can be good at
everything I try. Somehow though, because I write, I get to be the expert.
I write because I live inside my own crazy, fucked up world
half the time imagining all kinds of insane scenarios, and spend the other half
of the time talking to myself out loud pretending I’m living in another time as
another person, which only validates my insanity.
I write so I can release my tears. Not sad tears. Tears are
just how I show my emotion.
I write so I can share.
I write because I care. I care to know about other people
and where they’ve been and where they’re going and how they’re going to get
there.
I write because it’s the only thing that makes any sense to
me.
I write because in all my insanity, it’s the one sane thing
I’ve got to hold on to.
I write because if I don’t, the fire inside of me won’t die
down, blow out, or stop burning. It burns and it rages like a wild animal
trapped inside a cage that doesn’t feel calm until it has been released.
I write, quite simply, because I love to write.
