Why do I write?
I write because there is no other way for me to express my thoughts. I write for my own relief, to feel a quiet sigh once I finish writing. I write as I am starved of human interaction and wish to alleviate the symptoms of loneliness by the virtue of digital ink.
I am accustomed to living by swapping shards, for the time for me to venture and explore has already reached an end before it even started. So, to bide my time– I wish to write away my worries. If I am busy, I can let the ink drape itself over my body, letting me close my eyes—quelling my mind and deafening my thoughts.
I write to let others read what I want to speak, for my voice is one already warped by the touch of society— in its place, I will make oceans of words for others to immerse themselves in. I write with no identity to avoid renown and recognition.
It is a craving of mine, but must be cast away for a peace of mind. I wish to be known yet linger in the shadows– hiding from the rays of the sun, for I perceive shame and shyness more vividly than others.
I want my words to hold an effect on others, words that will expand their mind, words that will make them question themselves– finding clarity in the end. For my words to be ones that will make still blood flow once more.
If I cannot speak, I will arm the people who can– those with the talents that I lack, for them to speak with my words, so that we flourish as a whole instead of rotting away in different corners. I wish for my words to become great enough for them to be spoken by others.
I write to grant a proper release to all of the thoughts in my head. Writing for others would be akin to drinking poison to toast a forfeit– let my writing be one that speaks for all of my voices, voices that haven’t been spoken with others before, voices that I have reserved for those I viewed closely.
Each one of my steps is steeped with contradictions, ones that I question before giving in to oblivion. If I am unknown, then let my thoughts come out in its entirety instead of stifling them to please certain crowds.
I wish for my words to stoke the fire of others— for my torch to unite with the flames of another, becoming a flame greater than I. Let my words be a part of something greater– let the spark of my imagination light the flame of those with ambition brighter than mine.
Let my words burn as fuel for those whose ambition is a shared one amongst humanity, for their undertaking is one that should be reciprocated with unspoken grace– to let their flames remain immutable.
I write to guide light onto the path of those who thrive in the shadows of the people– those who have cast off their virtues to fill their vices. Those who society looks away from, rejecting them in their entirety– purging their memory of them but not their existence.
For those whose only way of living; those fallen from grace, let my light bless them like the radiant rays of the sun– gentle yet enlightening. For those who relish in the pain and distress of others, let my light shine upon them like a harsh flash of light– blinding them in a series of flashings; for they have already lost their light in all but sight.
Let the pitiful story of their lives be inscribed in their tombs– a warning to be passed down for humanity to remember. Let their failures guide us to success— let my words redeem my spark, preventing it from being snuffed.
I want my words to become used for something greater than I. Let them be a part of something greater– let the spark of my imagination light the flame of those with ambition brighter than mine. Let my words burn as fuel for those whose ambition is a shared one amongst humanity, for their undertaking is one that should be reciprocated.
I write to condemn the actions of others, in the place of silenced voices— against those who prosper in the pain of others; the one whose coins are minted with the blood of virtue. If good men stay silent, evil wins; dissent must be expressed, for our society is not a monolith but the entirety of a community. If we become stagnant, it is only a matter of time before we begin to decay— change is an essential component of our society and way of life.
I write to let my senses detail their encounters, to discuss details that others have missed and to let my overthinking manifest itself in the full fury of its maelstrom. My silence lets me see and hear more about others, which I personally find interesting as people are very expressive if you pay attention to every single facet of theirs.
I write without an identity to avoid the criticism of a bias, to be able to judge without being personally judged, to write anomalously to avoid giving others insight into my soul. As much as I love people, I fear that I will be submerged by them.
As I recognize my flaws in more detail than others, I wish to avoid giving others a fitted knife to slide into my heart. I will not claim to be a righteous man— I love the righteous yet am not one of them.
I know well that my thoughts themselves are contradictions, yet my mind and heart are aligned with my own ethos. An ethos that would rather break than bend— to bend once will weaken your will to bend to external pressure until the top of your scalp touches the ground.
Others may prioritize living but men both lesser and greater than me have died for their values and I am not willing to be any lesser than them in this regard— I have already bent once, once too many times.
I write with big ideals and a pure form of justice— forgetting that I am merely human, a being of imperfection. While I may write with such rigor and flame, I know myself. I am a person who believes in good but views life in its shades of grey— to view this world in a monochrome lens is to cover an eye.
I am a person whose energy is of passion, not of devotion. I forgot who I am— he who laughs at misery; be it misery of my own or the misery of others. So while this reflection of mine may seem idealist, at its core is a balance of realism and delusion. I may write for the people, but it is not because of the people.
I write to soothe myself and to let my personal thoughts flow first and foremost. My morals are strong but are prioritized less in this space— as I recognize that I am not irreplaceable. If I fall, two more shall take my place to write for humanity’s interest; but who will take my place to write for my interests?
Let the shards that form me… align for such organized chaos— for me to gaze upon; to see the sight of my own reflection. The reflection that remains as unfinished as I.
17-Thoughts_1 19-About me 22-Judgement
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