Highway to Happy

Cars are hustling and bustling outside, and I ask myself, why do I write?

I write because I love to read. I’m thrilled when I read a perfectly written sentence- the sort that I would never be able to create, myself. I love how books remind me of the simplest truths in life I tend to oversee; how writers can twist my mind and haunt me with words that would stain my heart forever. I write, usually after I read- when I am deeply touched or troubled- because that’s when I feel most exposed.

I write because I am sensitive. I’m easily moved and affected. And unlike others who use art and music as outlets, a pen is my weapon of choice. I shed emotions over a clean sheet of paper, transforming it into a tiny representation of myself, which, every so often, surprises me of who I had been for a time.

I write because there are moments I wouldn’t want to forget. Not merely the faces and still objects captured by photographs in a split second, but more of the sentiments. Writing it down and re-reading the words allow me to savor and drink in the feeling over and over.

I write when there’s a big lump in my throat that I cannot speak and I write when I pretend like there’s a big lump in my throat so I won’t hurt anyone. I write when emotions overpower me and spoken words fail me- because papers and blog entries can easily be trashed and deleted, unlike uttered ones that leave a permanent mark.

I write after staring at something too long. I write after a couple of deep sighs and taps of my fingers on the table. I write because I contemplate too much that my memory couldn’t catch up, anymore.

I write because it’s the only way I can tame the rumbling voices inside my head. I write because it’s a choice between that and being hit by a bus when I cross the street. I write because I’m contented, I’m sad, I’m hurt and I’m overjoyed. I write because I write a whole lot better than I can sing- which is not so much to say. I write because I cannot see flying angels and dancing stars, but then again, I can write about flying angels and dancing stars. I write, because this is when I feel most connected to the universe.

Cars are hustling and busting outside, and I’m writing- for all the reasons I could think of and all else I could not.