I write for so many reasons

I take all this chaos within my head, and put it into words

So many demons within me.

Funny right?

1 friend in reality

80 friends online.

Funny right?

Why do people not like me?

See?

Use that.

I feel so alone

I really do

And I take all that pain within my heart,

And put it all into words

Even if no one sees it

“People don’t know what It’s like to try and make yourself feel nothing,

Just so you can numb the pain.”

I don’t do this.

Writing is my way to numb the scars left behind by everyone I trusted

That’s why I write

It’s also why I have no friends

And that is why I feel so alone

And THAT is why I write

All these monsters within me, Are slowly being killed as I move my pencil across the paper

I don’t need any friends.

One

I only have one. And that’s all I need.

Let my words forever be my escape

As I watch myself slowly change from frowns

To smiles

It won’t be long before I drown out the feeling,

of being alone.

But for now I can’t stop asking myself

“Why do people not like me?”

I have demons.

So many FREAKING demons.

Always tearing me apart.

Piece by piece.

I thought there was no escape.

But a little light saved me.

That little light came in the form of writing.

When I'm writing,

The demons' jaws don't hurt as much.

The pain is bearable.

It's beautiful.

Even though my writing my not be that good,

It is mine.

And I love it.

Nobody will be able to take that from me.

Because that's a battle I'm not willing to lose.

So, listen, I write for some normal reasons, and some odd ones.

I write to escape into a fantasy land where no reality can reach me.

I write to let others know my perspective.

I write because one of my dreams is to change people's lives, to make an impact that will not be forgotten at the next turn of a page, or at the next trendy television show.

I write because I need to find some outlet so I don't explode from bottling it all up.

I write to feel like anything is possible.

Last, but not least;

I write to let out that hidden part of me that no one sees.

“Alcohol is poison.”

“If it’s poison, then why do you drink it?”

“Because there are things inside of me that I need to kill.”

I write because, similar to this scene in which Charlie Sheen from Two and a Half Men is (yes, incredibly intoxicated but) hitting rock bottom with self-deprecating humor, I am also leaning over the toilet of life, reacting on impulses yet contributing what I hope are illuminating sentences and tidbits of wisdom to an audience of viewers who will hopefully understand what I’m trying to say.

What Charlie Sheen is conveying in this scene is more than just a funny throw-away; to me, writing is something I come back to in order to kill the demons, to illuminate my addictions and faults, and to hope that someone out there will laugh, but also understand.

Every day, a little normalcy of silence is needed. You can sip a hot cup of coffee or tea, sitting on your porch or a favorite solitude place, reading a book or magazine, as you inhale and exhale the breezy fresh air in and out of your lungs, watching the sunrise or sunset, which the solace should give you relief in your chest.

Writing is like inhaling and exhaling air while watching the sun descend into the nightfall, or the shy moon slowly brightening the open blue sky while dancing with the shooting stars across the galaxy.

I write to soothe my sanity and empty the memory vault of insanity. The reason being, my mind is as sharp as a blade that works constantly throughout the day without any rest, which means my fight is with myself, how subconsciously furry words wage wars against me, wanting to roam and dance, flattening their flaming wings; when their rages comes cascading and pouring down like rainfall, my pen gives in and obliges their request, then lets them out of the door so they can roam or dance freely in daylights not remain caged in the pits of darkness inside my skull.

When the flood door of hell finally opens, they’d fly away freely, because their carnal hunger is fully satisfied, therefore, they’re forced to leave me alone to my own solace, so that I can softly and easily breathe in and out the fresh air.

Sometimes I wonder, why do I write? What is it that makes me want to put my figurative or literal pen to paper and form words and stories?

Sometimes, I have no clear answer. Is it because I love the thrill of creating new stories and characters and composing relatable emotional experiences? Is it because I crave the idea of other people feeling my heart and mind through my words and loving those words so much they laugh and cry over them? Is it the alluring image in my head of my name sitting at the top of the bestselling authors’ lists? Is it because writing is the way I communicate best with the world, so much so, that I feel I would suffocate if my hands were cut off or my pen was taken away? Is it that writing through my thoughts and analyzing and questions is how I come to know my own self, who I truly am under all the facades and appearances? Is it the fact that I simply can’t not write, even through the frequent drudgery and struggles of writer’s block or the self-revulsion over the pathetic excuse for writing that often comes out of my fingertips?

Maybe it’s a bit of all of those.

But no matter what the reason is, I just keep on doing it. Keep writing and writing and writing. Plow through the blockages, worries, frustrations, and the toxic apathy. Although I may never see my manuscripts published (but a fighting chance says I will), or experience the raves and reviews of loving fans (but I have faith I will someday), I still write. Even though I sometimes feel a panicky, gnawing futility in putting my thoughts and ideas down on paper, I still write. Despite the mysteries and inexplicable perplexities I perpetually encounter about myself and the world, I still write.

Somehow, some way, in all its messiness and craziness and unpredictability, I still love it. Writing has become a necessity in my life, in a bigger way than I thought possible, more than anything else that I value in this way.

This, I suppose, is why I write.

I don’t create jewels.

I’m not a Midas of words,

It’s not gold I make.

•

I create from pain.

Every word is a part of me

And why I write is the cornerstone of my existence.

I write because I need to.

I write to survive.

I write to alleviate my existence from just breathing to living.

There may not be stars, too many flowers or fluffy clouds and joyous colours in my words.

But there is something beyond that, beyond just words in what I write.

The ink from my fingertips that graze the paper and etch the words is a river full of truth, zigzag lanes of dark noons and rainy nights.

Each drop is soaked in the realms of my heart, comes from somewhere deep inside the studio of my mind.

It’s a way of living.

I write to walk every step of my life,

One

by

One,

Away from the hurt and the bruises,

Towards myself.

I write because it is a journey into my soul.

~

I wish I could give some poetic answer.

Why do I write?

Why does the orchid bloom?

Why does the Spider sew her web?

Such things are our nature.

Now, this would not only be a godawful cheese-sandwich, but also incredibly disingenuous. This isn’t me. And this isn’t how writing is for me...

So why do I write?

I actually asked myself this question about a year ago. I was - and still am to a lesser degree - suffering from tempestuous bouts of poor mental health. But back then, my self esteem, if tangible, would have resembled the under-scrapings of vagabond’s toenail. Sure I hid behind a cheery facade in public, but inside; I was having an existential crisis.

This was clear in my writing and I was using my journal as a confession-box, psychiatrist, and punching bag. Pages became torn as I scrawled in vicious vigour things I hope no one ever reads.

Soon enough, I turned my anger on writing itself.

Why do I even do this? I asked in scratchy ink. Why do I write? Do I even enjoy it?

I began to second guess this thing I’d come to associate myself with. If I tried really hard, I could remember when it all began.

I’d written a poem at school when I was maybe 8 or 9. It was about the planes of World War Two and I drew a picture of a Spitfire to go along with it. To my astonishment, they published it in the local paper. There were a couple other poems from kids at other schools, but mine was front and centre. They even included the picture.

Most impressively there was my name too, printed just like all the names of the real journalists.

By Georgie Gnu

I guess that taste of acknowledgement was all it took. I’d found something I was good at, something that earned me pats on the back and beams from my parents. I felt their pride. I was proud of myself!

And so I kept writing. I kept chasing that pat on the back. I chased it all the way to university, because, well what else would I study? There was nothing else I was good at...

But after university, away from the grades and rankings of formal education, I began to lose interest. I travelled: I moved to Canada, then to Spain, then Mexico, then back to Spain. I backpacked through Cambodia, worked my way around The Canary Islands, and fell in love in Vienna. I crashed through my mid-twenties like I was white-water rafting, living in the moment, thinking of only my present or immediate future.

I was living through the most thrilling days of my life so far, hands down, and yet there my notebook sat; forgotten, its pages barren.

I knew it was there, looking at me like a sad puppy. I would pick it up out of guilt every now and then, scribble down something semi-creative, then toss it aside and jump back in that raft.

I later years, I made more of an effort. I started journaling again, trying to reignite the writer within.

And then came the crisis.

It was like I’d been enjoying that river-ride so much that I’d let the torrent take me far from anything familiar. Now drifting calmly down the stream, I looked around and realised how lost I really was.

I’d gone so adrift, I wasn’t sure where I’d taken a wrong turn. Where I’d left the real me.

So, as I backtracked through my life, tearing up my personality and scrutinising my formative years, I of course turned on writing.

I prodded and probed the author in me. Sure, for as long as I could remember I’d wanted to be a writer. But why? Was it the idea of not having a real job? I mean, every paid job I’d had was the epitome of hell. Maybe I saw writing as a way of avoiding that.

Or was it an ego thing? We’re my dreams of being a writer fuelled by some desperate need to be admired or remembered. Deep down, did I just crave my own Wikipedia page? In the throws of depression, the answer came from dark places, in disgusted whispers of “yes, you pathetic attention-seeker”.

I came pretty close to convincing myself that my entire being - writing included - stemmed from desperation rather than love or joy.

But the more I wrote, the more the clouds seemed to part. Even in my darkest period, putting vile words on the page seemed to help. Each time I wrote, the weight of existence would lighten.

It’s funny, really. Even as I doubted my love of writing and my reasons behind wanting to be a writer, I did so with a pen and a notepad.

The storm inside my head gradually grew less volatile and on the clear days, I asked myself again: Why do I write? Why do I want to write?

The short answer - after such a long-winded rant - is to find and share the truth.

In myself and in the world.

I think in a world so tangled up in agendas and ulterior motives, more and more of us need to communicate truthfully. We need to be honest about ourselves and our society. The more we spread lies and wear masks and pretend life is something it’s not, the further away from our true selves we’ll drift. Soon enough, we’ll realise that we are so far gone, there’s no way of telling where we went astray. We’ll be well and truly lost.

So however you communicate, be it painting, dance, film, photography, spoken word, writing, whatever...do it honestly. Do for the truth.

Not only might you find yourself, but you might just help others find themselves too.