I’ve been writing my whole life – not for someone else, not even to get published. As narcissistic as it sounds, I write for myself. I write in my diary faithfully and consistently. I write in excruciating detail. I write how I feel as soon as I wake up. Maybe my nighttime habits and dreams have something to do with it. I write every mundane and fruitful things I’ve done. I write the lessons I learned during the day. I write about my disturbingly vivid dreams. I write about my failures and disappointments. Most of all, I write about my regrets.
I write until I get this feeling that I’m writing about someone else. I write until I reach an exhilarating feeling of depersonalization – the moment when you see yourself from the outside, in your purest form.
I want to see my life as someone else. I want to see myself as I really am. I want to evaluate my life without sentiment and learn as much as I can through the mistakes I made. I want every page to stand as a symbol for every stage in my life. I want to unburden the horrible things I’ve been carrying and go through life bearing only the useful ones. Most times, I figure out which is which through writing.
I am always preoccupied by thoughts – ugly, incoherent, all-consuming thoughts. Anne Frank said that paper is more patient than people. I couldn’t agree more. I want to clear my head without causing trouble to others, without boring them with my 3 AM thoughts, without blabbering about myself just because I couldn’t make sense of what I’m thinking. I write because writing is a more polite way of ‘thinking out loud.’
I write not because I have answers. I write as I’m pondering on my own questions and hoping to find someone with the same questions as mine.