Today I write with no purpose.
Well, actually, I shouldn’t say no purpose. After all, I’m sure I’ll stumble along some meaning behind this one way or another, right? Maybe about a paragraph in?
Anyway, that’s not the point. Well, actually, I guess it kinda is, considering I have no point… or at least it could be my point. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you have to read me. Don’t get me wrong, I love a little anonymous validation, but I don’t need it. Instead, I’m going to write because I want to.
I’ve realized something over the past few weeks with most of my reading habits (at least when I can squeeze a little reading in). I am so sick of this necessity, this unquestioned driving force that says “You must be read or you’re worth nothing.” Once again, don’t read this as “Fuck you, stop reading” because what good would that do? I’m just saying that there comes a point in every writer’s life (God, how pretentious does that sound?) where he or she realizes that writing for other people just isn’t worth it. It’s exhausting, it’s humiliating, and it’s debasement at its finest. And I’m not going to do it out of some false sense of obligation.
No, instead, I’m writing because I’d like to think I have something to say. Maybe even a voice? I’m not saying I plan to change the world with my literary prowess, but I’m in one of those “me” phases. I guess some people call it “introspection” but I’m not here to put labels on it or justify it. To put it simply, I’m trying to make sense of why I write.
I can’t say I’m any closer to figuring that out. Hell, I’m not sure most writers understand the urge. But I can say that I’m taking it one step at a time. Step one? Today, I write.