(This writing consists of a few thoughts I, and I'm sure others, have had in the past and is a bit deeper and darker than others I've written. I'd truly appreciate it if you'd express some of your thoughts on what I've written!)

Why do I write? Is it so I can feel better about my inability to do anything? Or perhaps, it is so I can put my feelings onto a page and call it a day, letting others carry the burden of my emotions with me. Do I hope to change people and their perspectives? Or do I want to entertain others so they can disappear into an imaginary world where their troubles can’t haunt them?

Do I do it to prove to you that I’m capable of more than just living? Is writing an outlet for my insecurities to take control and earn some type of twisted sympathy? Is that what I want? Is it what I need? What do I want? And what do I need?

Do I even enjoy writing? Even now the answer to that question eludes me. Forcing me to run with all my little strength to even keep my eyes on it. Is writing simply a means to an end? One whose only benefit is the brief feeling of satisfaction. Or is it to get an emotion of joy that comes from finally pursuing a “talent”?

Why even try when so many people are more skilled than me by simply existing, not trying, or wanting to be? Do I continue to write because there is some vulgar part of me that convinces me I love writing, and I want to pursue it as a career one day? Is that part of myself trying to convince me that I won't end up working a nine-to-five corporate job? Do I tell myself that this is my calling just to prevent myself from grasping how hopelessly tragic my skillsets truly are?