Why write?
I write to clear a bit of the static from my noisy head.
To shape the chaos. To stitch a thread of meaning through the mess.
I write for the quiet joy of one word plus another, and then another—becoming something real:
a scribble, a note to self, a memory, a paragraph.
I don’t write because the world demands it.
I write because something inside insists.
And maybe—just maybe—someone else will read it and think,
“Me too.”
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