Reasons to Write

I vaguely remember the night in 2009 when I was sitting in front of my computer with a similar feeling of emptiness that I have so often experienced since childhood. 

The feeling that brought thoughts like, What's all this for? What are we all living for? If we are all going to die, then who is taking in all these experiences? Our brains will turn to ashes or become food for maggots depending upon the religion one follows. 

The memories stored in our brains would be gone. The only thing that makes us identify as ourselves are our memories and they are so easily damaged or manipulated. If our memories are so fragile and there is no absolute guarantee that they are unalterable, then who are we actually? I mean it's possible to lose all our memories due to some unfortunate disease or accident, then what would remain. 

What is our true essence?

As I was going through this wormhole of thought process, I decided to post something like the purpose of our existence on blogger. That was the first post I ever made. To this day, I am no closer to finding the answer to that question. And I kept writing on and off after that, I think till 2017.

I could not write anything after that since I was unable to focus or just lost interest. Even now, I am pushing myself a lot as I write this. It's not a lack of ideas or thoughts, I believe it's the effort of putting them into words. 

Also, it's the nature of the job that I do for a living that leaves me exhausted not because it demands a lot of intellectual effort. In fact, it's the opposite, it is dull and boring, but it takes away a good amount of my time. This is a problem I am now actively trying to solve. I hope to create a source of income where I don't have to work for somebody else so that I have time left to pursue my interests, one of them being writing.

But why write? What do I have to say? A lot if I start thinking. I mean I don’t know if it would amount to anything or not, but I have learned the hard way that it is not for me to decide. I should just let myself go and hand over the fate of ideas or thoughts I have in the hands of the universe. At least there would be no regret that I did not do what I should have when I had the chance.

Obviously, writing cannot be just for the sake of it. When I am writing my mind must be clear of all the evils that plague us. It’s very easy and tempting to give in to the darkness that resides within all of us. I hope that whatever I write means something and does not cause pain or suffering to anyone.

I hope that through this medium I can bring forth some meaningful ideas to life and in the end when I am gone, there would be a trace of me left in this ocean of the world wide web.

“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” ― Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale