avatarIsaiah Armendariz

Summary

The author reflects on the multifaceted reasons for writing, ranging from personal expression and connection to legacy and catharsis, ultimately concluding that writing is a fundamental part of their identity and a means to give and find meaning.

Abstract

The article delves into the introspective question of why individuals, including the author, engage in writing. It is portrayed as a tool for intertwining oneself with others, a medium for expressing experiences, and a way to expose oneself to vulnerability. Writing is seen as a method to capture the essence of nature, remember the past, and strive for immortality through a carved-out legacy. The author ponders whether writing has become a corrupted form of communication, yet acknowledges its power to both unite and divide. Despite the fluctuating nature of writing, the author affirms its constant presence in their life, serving as a cathartic outlet and a means to share one's essence with the world. The article concludes with a personal note of gratitude and an invitation for readers to contemplate their own reasons for writing, alongside a link to one of the author's poems.

Opinions

  • Writing is a deeply personal act, akin to baring one's soul, which can lead to acceptance or rejection.
  • The act of writing can be an exploration of the world around us, documenting the intricacies of nature and the tumultuousness of life experiences.
  • There is a desire to achieve a form of immortality through writing, leaving behind a legacy that outlasts physical materials.
  • The power of words is acknowledged for their ability to both create and destroy, highlighting the duality of communication.
  • Writing is described as a dynamic process, changing day by day, yet it remains a steadfast companion to the author.
  • The author expresses that writing is an inherent part of their existence, akin to an old friend, always present and recognizable.
  • Writing is seen as a cathartic and beautiful process, despite the vulnerability and potential for misinterpretation or misuse.
  • The author questions the true essence of writing, wondering if their understanding is flawed, yet concludes that writing is what gives them purpose and meaning.

Why do we write?

Painting by LEONID PASTERNAK, “THE PASSION OF CREATION” 1899

Why do we write?

Actually, why do I write for that matter?

Is it a way to intertwine myself with others, how I’ve learned to express my experience, get deep under those covers?

Or is it to throw myself to a pack of wolves, not protected but nude, vulnerable letting any passerby inspect, with the hope that they might just accept me? Me, a derailed train basking in its own wreck.

Do we write to know the mountains, jot down their details, how rough and rugged they can be, evaluating how it all seems to come together at the peak?

Are we scribbling it all down to remember the past, from all the green pastures, to how the waves rose up to topple us over, so massive so vast? Upset that it happened, but even more angry it came and went so fast.

Is it to write to live forever? Carve out a legacy to outlast any wood or stone. Leave behind etched ideas saying, “I was here, this was my home.”

Could it be just a form of communication we learned to use, and then later relearned to abuse? Exacerbated our ability to what humans should think, say, and do.

Words used to come together. A love letter, a poem, living breathing pieces of a heart, sealed into a note.

Words used to destroy. A declaration, schemed doctrines towards a bloodbath, a war started from a call to action, words no one person wrote.

Each day it's different, even at night it's not quite the same.

But some days it's clear, clearer than ever.

I write because it's all I know, the one thing that came forward, out of the fog already recognizing me, like an old friend who needs no reunion. Always there always will be.

Within it burns, words stemming into spells, that enchanting idea others will open up their ears and hear it well.

It’s beautiful and cathartic locked in my writing. Each scribble, each text, was built from my blood and then thrown out, onto the next.

All the same, the words are some of this and a hint of that, a culmination of experiences glued back together time and time again.

Maybe I’m wrong…..

Could be that it's something different, all I really know is writing is what keeps me down here, living and breathing, brushing up against what I deem to have meaning.

Thank you for reading, why do you write?

My best poem so far is linked below! Cheers!

Art
Writing
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Philosophy
Poetry
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