I Write, Hence Exist. The pen truly is mightier than a sword (or AK-47)
Throughout our existence we’ve always yearned for ways to express ourselves and speak to the outside world of what we feel and think. At times it doesn’t even matter whether someone responds to the echo we transmit through writings, poems, stories and etc. Figuratively speaking, so long as the literary plethora stuck in our soul finds an outlet, it makes little difference whether the falling tree in the woods makes a sound for someone. We write for the love of it.
Brain in a vat
My love for writing began the moment I became consicous of putting my thoughts and emotions somewhere other than in my own brain. After all, writing and existence are both forms of substance creation without de facto superficial hindrances. Some, such as author Ayn Rand, pursue deeper forms of philosophical self-expressions whereas others vent for themselves in a locked and hidden diary. Who am I then?
From early childhood I found immense pleasure in designing stories and conceptualizing them into a coherent form. A form, which I controlled, morphed and even destroyed at the whim of a pencil. Some might ponder whether creating alternative realities is the ultimate power aphrodisiac, congenial to perhaps divine creation. I cannot answer that, only admit that stopping the process writing a story is like holding one’s breath: eventually you’ll give in and do what is natural: breathe. Just like we cannot make the choice to stop breathing on our own, I cannot make the choice of ceasing to write.
The Never Ending Road
Then how does one know when he/she has achieved literary nirvana or when something that has been written would be considered a piece of perfection, the end of a road so to speak? I wish to never find out. Writing for me is like taking a never ending stroll with the greatest human minds, always finding something new to think and write about. An endless project to not only grasp the purpose of others, but most importantly ask whether you think and therefore are?