I write because I would go mad if I didn’t. It is my outlet; my sanity. So in a way, it’s selfish of me. But then again, to breathe is not considered selfish; it is simply understood as necessary for survival.
My head is an explosion of ideas, colours, fragments, the unwritten.
Sometimes someone tells me that they have been encouraged by my writing. That makes me smile. If I can bring happiness to another through my scrambled thoughts, I feel as if those have been well-lived moments.
Words can reach into places where a person could never go. I know as a teenager, I would not trust another person, and would barely communicate. I was an impenetrable fortress of self-protection. But when I opened a book, there I lost myself. I allowed myself to escape into a fantasy world where I could be free, if only for a short time.
I remember that young girl, when I write. My stories can reach places no person can, because for some people, no one will ever be allowed to be near them, hurt as they have been by the cruelty of the world. So I write for her freedom. I write to make life better.
Most times when I write, I feel out of my depth. I am convinced everyone will discover me for the fraud that I am. Who am I, to think that I can create? Who am I, whose words are worthy to be read by another? I am that fourteen year old girl. I am trying to reach those that nobody else can reach. I am writing her freedom.