Why I Write

Catharsis.

In one word, catharsis.

The page, although metaphorical, does not judge me for feeling. It doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t try to fix my existence before I’ve said what I want to say. It listens, in a way. Open and waiting, endless.

I write because the words in my head get too loud sometimes, waiting to be let out. Writing gives me a way to give them freedom, to understand them, and unknot them, one loop at a time.

I write because silence isn’t always peace, it’s suppression. I refuse to swallow my own voice because the world isn’t ready to listen — but the page always does. Writing is the the closest thing to permanence we humans have. Thoughts fade, people change, and moments slip away. But words? Words stay, and the ink doesn’t forget.

But, most important, I write because there’s no better way to be me. Raw, unfiltered, and messy, sure, but also real. Even if nobody else reads it, the page does. And sometimes, that’s enough.

And that’s why I write.