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Writing

 Why do people still write? It’s not a question I ask lightly. In a world that seems to be drowning in words, spilling from screens and books and voices, why does anyone feel the need to add more? What is it they’re hoping for? What do they expect to find?  


Maybe it’s the need to be seen, to be heard in a way that feels permanent. Maybe it’s the hope that, in the labyrinth of human experience, someone will stumble upon their words and feel less alone. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe people write because they’re trying to understand themselves, to make sense of the chaos that churns inside them.  


I used to believe writing was an act of brilliance, reserved for those with something extraordinary to say. But now I wonder if it’s something much smaller and humbler than that. Writing, I think, isn’t about saying something new; it’s about making sense of the old, of the familiar. It’s about taking what we already know—love, loss, joy, regret—and holding it up to the light, hoping to see it in a different way.  


For me, writing isn’t about grand truths or sweeping declarations. It’s about moments. It’s about capturing the small, quiet things we forget in the rush of living: the way the air smells before rain, the sound of a loved one’s laughter, the weight of a single decision. These things seem so trivial until they’re not.  


I write because I’m afraid of forgetting. Afraid of the way life keeps moving, keeps erasing what came before. Maybe my words won’t last, maybe they won’t matter. But for a moment, they feel like anchors, holding something steady in the storm of time.  


And so, I keep writing. Not because I believe the world needs my voice, but because I do. Writing is how I make sense of myself, how I hold on to what feels too precious to let go. The words are imperfect, and so am I. But maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

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