Why I write

I need to be remembered. I deserve to be remembered. That is what I am really saying every time I write something down. Lets face it; writing is essentially a beautiful ego trip. Somewhere in my writers mind, I decide that my thoughts are worth keeping for posterity. Somehow I am convinced that my views have intrinsic value; that someone, at the very least myself, will someday benefit from my wisdom.



So writers breathe words onto paper, and mash dreams onto computer screens, with the hope that their texts will one day be recognized as the works of genius that they think they are. Oh sure, many artists are shy and self deprecating when it comes to their work, but even the fact that they have written it down says that they think it is worthy of being recorded. It would be tragic for our words to be forgotten.



And so we write out of fear. A hopeless act of desperation with which we hope to transcend our vapid existence. Writing is our chance to burst our mortal shell and make something that proves that we are more than men. We long to create something eternal, to truly be an image of God. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall never pass away, we proclaim desperately, as the pen moves frantically across a sheet of paper.



I write to be comforted amidst a world of constant change. I write so that I can laugh as my body dies. I write so I can smirk as people spout wisdom, only to forget what they said a moment later. I write selfishly, eagerly, hungrily; ravenous to fill my aching notebook with words that will last forever.