I write because I still remember the thrill of seeing my name in print in the school magazine in fourth grade.
I write because years ago my cousin told me that if I continued writing that diary, someday I will turn over those pages and smile at the happy, sad, silly, worried younger version of me. I write because every time I do turn over the pages of my diary, I can see myself writing those words – I can remember the day, the incidents that led to what I wrote, and in those pages I see myself like I can see another person: my face, my expressions with no mirror in front of me and the images are as clear as in HD TV.
I write because I always thought no one understood me. I write because my writing is my way of explaining myself to the world and hoping some day, some one would understand me down to my bones and skin and love me for whoever I am.
I write because I enter a different world when I am writing; I wear a different face, different skin at the time and I can be who I want to freely, without pretense, without worrying.
I write because I am no painter and my writing is my way of capturing the memories for the desolate years of living alone or old age.
I write because what I have to say is important for me, even if it holds no value to the world.
I write because I crave attention. I write because I am no head-turner, but I am desperate to prove I am not as plain as you think I am.
I write because without writing I feel purposeless, dull.
I write because I may never tell you how hurt or sad or depressed I am. I write because my writing is my voice.
I write because I know no other way.