Constrained by the pressures of life and learning, I feel as if I have no time at all to write. Shackled to my responsibilities, tethered by my moral belief that I have to do my responsibilities, I cannot write.
I feel like I am less myself, less human, when I don’t write. Writing has, for some reason or another, embedded itself into my very Being and refused to budge.
But perhaps it is not that I can’t, just that I don’t. I don’t write because writing is hard. I don’t write because I have all these excuses not to. I don’t write because I feel that writing isn’t a priority, that it’s just a hobby. But on the other hand, when I don’t write, I feel bereft. I feel like I am less myself, less human, when I don’t write. Writing has, for some reason or another, embedded itself into my very Being and refused to budge. It clings to me, chases me. And I love it and hate it and adore it in turns. Sometimes I fancy myself going mad without it, as if my soul was escaping out of me to chase it, if my body refuses to do it. And the thing is, writing isn’t a hobby. Not for me. I have found over time that as I grow older writing seems to become increasingly important. It has become crucial to my continued happiness, even my sanity. I find that it necessitates me: that one of the reasons for my existence, my Being, is to write.
Writing is not merely a ways to express myself anymore. Writing has become entwined with me, as DNA strands are eternally, and rightly, joined together. And so, therefore, as I write, writing, too, has written itself in me. The question now is this: do I write, or does writing write me? Do I pen stories, or do stories pen me? Am I shaped, written, therefore by writing? It is an interesting question to ask.