Why I Write

My mind is strange. My mind consists of worlds entirely separate from that of our own. My mind is a portal to a new realm. My mind is creation.

The line between reality and fantasy is a blur. Rather than see what really happens around me, I choose to look instead at what could exist in my surroundings. It begins as a fuzz. But soon, I have imagined dangers and wonders unlike anything that could happen in real life. I feel the buzz and surge of a new creation and crave that feeling. I thirst after what could be.

I don’t like reality. It’s boring. It’s brash. I tire of the constant complaints of useless worries - my hair doesn’t look good, I got a C on the math test - of society. I am disgusted at the manner in which people treat each other. Nobody has the kindness or compassion to complete a single act of kindness. Nobody has the guts the stand up to a bully, and instead let it pass by them without a second glance.

I write for escape. I don’t have to be stuck at a standstill in a crowd I can’t get through if I can see it instead as something better. Something to give me a rush of energy. A moment of excitement.

I see the world differently. I can’t always understand the way I see it until the words dance upon the page to produce something tangible. My thoughts begin to make sense within my jumbled mind. The words which I seem to have trouble speaking, ease onto the page like a knife through butter.

Words sprawled on paper are beauty. They’re everything you want. They’re the thoughts you can’t untangle. They’re the magic that can’t be seen in reality.