why write?

So often I wish to sit down and write. I keep a notebook and pen in the car with me to jot down a fleeting thought or whim, while another sits by my bed, begging to be regaled by my days events. So often I feel as though my mind and emotions will explode without an outlet, and so often I sit, silent, motionless, as if to make my thoughts settle with my body; so often I fail.

So often I've written to move, to challenge, to inspire. I've written for assignments, for publication, and for work... all for pleasure.

Rarely, however, do I write for me. To simply express my mind, my feelings. Maybe it's because that's what I did while I was in the clutches of depressions ire, and my emotions seemed more poetic. Maybe it's because I don't want people to really hear my thoughts... or maybe it's because I do, and I know they wont.

I do not flatter myself to think that I have an audience, or that they will be interested in my musings, if they exist.... so, for now, I write, I suppose, for an audience of one.