In Case You Were Wondering

For as long as I can remember, people  have asked me "why do you write?" At first, the answer seemed fairly obvious: "because I like to."

I wrote down everything; the smell of toast and the sound of water running and even things I'd never experienced before. I didn't discriminate. I knew that everything had the potential to be a story. I read. Like crazy. I read until my eyes fell out and my brain mushed. I didn't think about it, just let it come as it would. Most of the time, it didn't even make sense at all. And I was happy with it all, with my ink-smudged fingers and my notebooks swollen with poems.

But then life got that much more complicated and I wasn't so sure anymore. My poems became lengthier with less rhyme and more angst than was probably good for me. Everything was shattering apart and it was all slipping through my fingers like smoke. Gone were the fluffy little princess stories with pages of dialogue and purple prose, replaced by broken-hearted lovers and equally broken dreams. But people still asked me the same question and I still had to answer: "because it's the only time when I can be anything I want."
    
The world spun a couple more times and I cried and hurt and laughed a bit more before I figured out that it was okay if I wasn't able to figure things out. So I kept writing and that too made it okay. People suddenly started to read what I wrote, usually reserved only for my much-abused spiral bound notebook. They said it was beautiful, that I had talent, and then they asked me yet again, "why do you write?"
    
I know all the answers already. I write because words are carved into my soul, pounding, throbbing like divine dreams through my veins, and echoing in my head like unspoken prayers. They are my life. I say them, hear them, breathe them, eat them, dream them. I write because it makes me feel needed, this strange power I have to tell stories. The people I write about exist. They talk and argue and love with me and each other. They were my friends when I believed I had none. I write because when I hear something like "there are more stars in the universe than there are grains of sand on the Earth," it's impossible not to regurgitate that back onto paper in the form of a mismatched love story. I write to keep some semblance of sanity from tumbling out of my ears. I write for the same reason I breathe.

"So why do you write?" you prompt. I turn and look unflinchingly into your eyes. Breaking into a smile that's half teasing, half like I'm about to reveal my deepest secret, I say simply, "Why not?"