I write mostly because I’m a far better person in text than I am when I speak.
Of the many skills I developed that help maintain plausible sanity, I have more confidence in writing and rarely ever tire of it.
I pity the poor things who occupy space with me while my mind spins so fast that even I can’t keep up. I can’t expect anyone else to understand my feeble attempts to orate the vast, intricate thoughts spinning from the centrifuge of my brain; ones that comprehend quantum physics, string theory and Latin, yet I can’t recall if I ate today or how many steps get me to the light switch – and the freezer for ice cream – in utter darkness.
Mostly I write to sound the wee small voice within me, to be a beacon to seemingly hopeless lost souls, desperate to know someone gives a care. While I have failed time and again, forcing me underground, my clandestine, subversive mission is to help guide each lost child toward home.
Of an entire tree, if one piece of the fruit of my labor, a single sentence eventually helps somebody find reason enough to keep living, then I feel my time is not wasted.