Why I Write
Originally Written: 04-Nov-2021
Word Count: 334
Read Time: 2 minutes
Readability Score: 79.3 (7th Grade)
For as long as I can remember, writing about my problems and what I was going through in life was the best way I could deal with them.
It wasn't the best way for me to deal with them.
Actually, it was sometimes the worst way for me to deal with problems.
Because it oftentimes created more problems than it sought to leave to rest.
Because I am a Millennial.
A Millennial with a need for attention and immediate validation for their efforts.
So nearly everything I've ever written has eventually been posted online.
*looks at website*
It's not my fault. It's just that I wasn't ever given the chance to say what was ever really on my mind.
In a family with so much tension and drama going on, there wasn't much room to complain.
However, time and again, my feelings would bottle up so much so that outright novellas were born.
Maybe not good novellas, more so loquacious essays spouting the most grandiose of thoughts.
I was desperate.
Desperate for attention.
Not just attention.
Attention for how I was feeling at the time, which was usually alone.
Context is often something earned in solitude, yet is such a gift to behold.
It's no wonder I find myself in such a state of oversharing.
When one encounters the opportunity to help others, one must.
But to forego one's needs in the process is downright inhumane.
When one's needs and opportunities are one in the same, there is nothing but context to gain.
With time passing, and in each moment, we never truly lose what we always seek to gain.
But it's a zero-sum game in the world of having.
One cannot have their cake and eat it too.
Pick your passions for what they are: passions.
But consider the context of your choices.
For your choices are just that: choices.
It is my choice to never be silent.
At least not in the ways I can.
Hear. Me. Roar.