Lately people have been shooting my ears with questions like “Why do you like to write?”, and I’ve been caught off-guard every time, not really having a reason to like what I do or even know why I do it. I can counter with “Why does anyone do anything?”, but my own answer leaves me feeling unfulfilled and empty.
Why do I do something that I like and try so hard, when I probably won’t ever make it anywhere? Why do I take time out of my life and strain my eyesight, wrack my brain for words to form sentences I haven’t seen yet. How many words do we have in our vocabulary to make a new sentence? How do I know that what I’m saying doesn’t already exist?
I don’t know. Those are way too many questions.
But I–I don’t know why I like writing, per say. I like how words make emotions and experiences eternal. I like how personal they are, written down and kept forever. I like how everyone reads it in their own voice, adding their own meaning and sighing because they find bits and pieces of themselves in these words.
I like making things? I like creation, I should say. I like coming up with worlds and people and societies, and I like watching them grow or destroy.
I don’t know, I like it because I like other things so–it’s just my second nature? An affinity I have? A talent I’ve developed over time?
I don’t know. Stop asking me why I do things.