midnight musings

Sometimes I wonder who I’m trying to reach when I write. Myself? People like myself? Someone to validate my existence and tell me I’m good enough to carry on? I’m not sure I have any idea. All I know is that I feel driven to share what moves through me, in whatever way I can. I believe that we are all given gifts for a reason and that reason is not to hide them away. At the same time, it often feels like no one sees or hears. It’s taken me a long time to come back to the truth that it’s about the process, not the result or the reaction. I write because I must, not to gain anything in particular. Simple as that.

No matter what else I pursue, even excel in, I’m always compelled to come back to writing at some point. I cannot quit it – it’s in my bones. Writing is a key component of who I am. I’ve always loved to read, loved to dive into a world created with the simple alchemy of language. Despite the imposter syndrome, despite often not knowing if what comes out makes any sense at all… I continue on. Perhaps I go days, even weeks, without writing a thing. Even so, if that ability was taken from me – I know that I wouldn’t be quite fully myself. No matter what else I do, I am a writer.

It often occurs to me now that I don’t need to find a reason to write. I write because I exist. I write because the words demand to spill forth. Isn’t that all the reason that’s required? We spend so much time trying to justify why we do what we do. I suggest we put that energy towards our joyful, unfettered creative output instead. It doesn’t matter what we create. It only matters that we keep creating.

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