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stories
After attending the [first ever] Poets and Writers Online Meetup at the iHub, and reading (and re-reading) George Orwell’s ‘Why I Write‘, I have been looking back at my reasons for starting a blog in the first place, why I write and where I want this to go.
It’s physically exhausting, sitting and channeling the thoughts in my brain into words on the scree, but it is immensely satisfying as well, having a conversation with the world, being open to ideas and suggestions and having a jolly good time. I believe in the power of the written word, that the things we put down are magic, a representation of what we have hidden in the recesses of our minds. Being a writer of any class, from a two-bit nobody such as myself to a veritable internet phenomenon means that there is something I am doing, something they are doing, sharing the written word in all its complexities and sculpting beauty from what they do. Reaching within themselves and weaving their thoughts on the loom of syntax and semantics to produce a cloth so fine and so beautiful that the most we can do is admire it, cut it to size and wear it proudly.
Then there are those who take the cloth woven from the artist and fashion a gag from it, use it to stifle the artist, to fashion a crude noose from which the artist will hang, taking his word with him. The ultimate sacrifice, after all, is to give your life for your art.
That is why I write.
I write because I have something to say. Because I have opinions. Because I want to share my viewpoint with the rest of the world.
I write especially because I know there will be a time when I will be so jaded, so lost to the world that I will not have anything to say. I write because I know my hopes will be crushed, my faith will be tested. I write because I will want to look back and remind myself who I really am.
I write to remember.
I write, because the words in my head form a portal to my heart, to what I really feel but I am afraid to say.
I write, therefore I am.

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