If you were to ask me why I write, I would look at you for a moment and leave. So please, don’t ask me why I write.
There was a time, I found myself alone, writing, we do write, don’t we? But this time, it felt weird. I felt what I wrote. Sometime I cried. On others days, I smiled. Sometime I laughed. On other days, I didn’t know what to do. I was just there. Scribling words that I thought would make sense. To date, the one’s who read what I write don’t tell me if I make sense with what I write. I just write.
With an exception, there’s this girl. Everytime I write, she replies. This doesn’t mean what I write makes sense.
I’m made to think she see’s sense in me more than what I write. Her replies; “I know you.” “I know whom you’re writing to”. “Who hurt you.” Excetra. Each time she replies, I ask myself; how does she know me? I’m an open book. How does she know who I’m writing to? When I love I tell the whole world. I’m I hurt? I gave my heart to a heartbreaker.
The genesis to my writing still is unknown, I pray I’ll write to find when, why, how I started writing.