The important question is this: Why do I write?
I have found entire worlds form around me as I turned page after page, reading what someone else had written. I find that words comfort me and can explain what I feel.
When I read a sentence that goes:
The forest filled with the sound of birds chirping, as if it celebrated the birth of the boy.
As I read that, I have a picture in front of my eyes. And anyone who loves reading does so because the image the same sentence creates for him can be entirely different from mine.
Isn’t that wonderful?
I think I want to write because I love reading and I know what words can do to you.
Writers inspire me.
Poets create magic with their distorted perception of this world.
Novelists create entire universes full of unique characters between the yellow pages of an ageing book.
I write because I know, palaces will be razed to the ground but words will never die. And it is my shot at avoiding Oblivion.
Writing helps me cope with the dilemma of existing in the absurd. I place my life before anyone else and yet fail to find it’s purpose.
I write because it is much like talking to myself: unraveling the innermost thoughts of this mind and putting it out to censure.