As I pick up a pen, sit at a keyboard, words just suddenly start flowing on to the page. I am writing and simultaneously thinking, figuring things—life—out. It is a beneficial and therapeutic exercise for me. I love to write. Seeing, to me, is understanding. And my words, my thoughts, are never better understood than when they are on paper, on the screen(for this 21st century). When I can see them; rearrange, reword, rewrite, I can make sense of them. I love how organized and succinct my thoughts become. I enjoy this exercise. I need this exercise.
The search for the right word excites me. The idea of expressing myself so acutely, so vulnerably thrills me. And yet, I often shy away from utter honesty. I erase or delete certain insights for fear of criticism, for fear of exposure.
But my thoughts are my own. And I should own them. I need to express them, at least to myself, in order to identify them clearly. In order to ascertain what action or inaction I should take on their behalf. Every thought has an origin, a destination, a purpose. And for me, the best way to determine the purpose of each thought is to see it in front of me. In black in white.
Thus, I write.