I write because it’s louder than screaming. Because no one truly listens to words that are forever lost once simply spoken. I write, not because I have something to say, but because I have something I want you to hold onto for the rest of your days. I write because I know that I’ll forget my own voice one day, but these words will help me remember my truths. I write because the words that trickle from my pen, are much more elegant than those that stop-stumble-fall-bounce from my mouth. I write because Whitman told me to sing, because Para said to improve the blank page, because Baldwin wanted me to shout it from the mountain, and because Hemingway was tired of the elephant in the room.
I write because if I don’t, then who will? Because if I can’t tell my story, put it down in ink – even zeros and ones – who will remember my name when times winged chariot approaches?
I write because I am afraid of what might happen if I don’t.
I write because there are those who won’t, and that makes me hurt.