I am not usually one to share my writing to anyone, lest it be posted on this blog or for a school assignment, blah blah. But just recently, I had a friend of mine read a piece from the notebook I started keeping. He asked me if what I wrote was inspired by things I actually experienced in my life.
I thought about it and the answer to that question is “yes.”
I write because I can never properly formulate the words to exit my lips as elegantly as I am able to do so on paper. Though the sword cuts through the body and spews blood across the land, it is by the pen that the tragedy of war is remembered. If it were not written, then it could be more easily forgotten. For the blood is eventually washed away by the rain. And it is the pen that tattoos the soul with awe of how we are all connected.
For when I am in the moment, I cannot describe what I feel. But when I close my eyes and twirl the ink rod between my fingertips, it becomes an enchanted wand that allows me to repaint the memories and live again, whether in pleasure or in pain.
And to understand.
That is why I write.