A friend of mine and were hanging out, waiting for our ride back home in a coffee shop one late Wednesday evening. He was seven years my senior, an accomplished man, much more successful than I in terms of education and probably would be in terms of career as well, though I never really felt any particular emnity or jealousy towards him. Though he was well on his way to penthouses, sports cars, expensive wine, and front page news, my friend was far too absorbed in the throes of a life that barely even served himself. That, as selfish as I am, was something I could never truly commit to. He settled down his drink on the table when he suddenly took notice the journal sticking out of my brown everyday school satchel, and asked me- probably just to strike out the silence or kill the boredom- “So. Why do you write?”
“I stop thinking when I write,” I explained, not giving it so much as a thought as if I’d already answered this question many times over before. “It empties me and sometimes, I just need to be empty.”
“And what makes you so full?”
“Nothing. Because before everything starts piling up again, I run through a book, I play a little piano, I start my journal entry.”
“That’s really deep.”
“I don’t mean to be. To tell you the truth, I hate it when people start telling me my art is deep. It’s really very simple, really: I hate thinking. It’s far too crowded in there. I need to deconstruct, I need to collect my thoughts.”
“And that’s why you write?”
“I stop thinking when I write.”
He nodded to contemplate for a bit and said something I forgot in return. I nodded back at him. We fell back into silence afterward, returned to sipping our coffee, taking our time until the long hand of the clock struck 12 and we parted ways.
To tell you the truth, I’ve never really fully understood the reason behind why I write. It really varies every night. One day I take to the pen just to feel alright and then the next, I spend the night writing to dance around my sorrows. I write to inform others of myself. I write to remind myself of myself. I write to make good humor. To feel this certain punctuation to a thought bothering me in my spare time and to ultimately empty myself of all the thousand tangled threads inside my head that would not unravel at my command.
Really, it varies every time and even these reasons I seem to find very difficult to explain to others when I have to. So I write about it, as how I should have tried to write down a better explanation that I really should have given my friend that night about the reason I write.
I must admit however that I’m pretty disappointed with myself that I hadn’t explain this to him well. I really wish I did. It felt great to tell someone even just a fraction of the whole reason why I love to write – for all this time I had been keeping my writings on the down low, and I’ve realized that perhaps it’s time I let others know of the reasons I write. The reasons I live. The reasons I love-
Because life is too short. People are too similar. And for all I know you who could be reading this is someone who understands this better than I am right now.
This is why I’m starting a blog.
An Illustration of the Desert.
Because life is beautiful, life is tragic, and there are so many explanations- even in the littlest of stories.