By Kaitlin Gray
One may write to free the soul; to live in an alternate universe for a moment, creating worlds without care; where anything and anyone can happen, and no one questions it when the sky is purple and rain falls in warm pockets of oval-shaped bubbles. In these places you are free to be happy. There are no rules, no pain, no imperfection.
One may write to express memories in their most accurately confused form. A personal narrative recollects events, driving that long, lost, underlying question “why?” to madness. Sometimes I write for those same ambiguous solutions– and finally, when an answer comes, the hours are long gone and I’ve only discovered hidden answers– treasures– on paper, where it seems my solutions have only been waiting all along. Small letters peek up at me with aching eyes, glimpsing merely what is left of my bitter smile. They are only words.
These are only words . . .
A scientist writes to inform the world of autotrophic microorganisms, the mathematical perplexities of the Fibonacci Sequence in modern art, and EGS8p7: the farthest known galaxy of objects, shining more than 13.2 billion light years away.
Women write oral family recipes to expose household secrets. These can be preserved long after their final breaths escape mortality. As for men? I don’t know why men write. Perhaps it’s to expose the sentimental elements of their character to the women.
Writing can describe the sky as the flavorful cotton candy it is, all the while without getting psychiatric referrals. (In standard conversation, this would undoubtedly seem loony.) I have yet to find another forum for expression that promotes quite the same freedom. Who would leave this alone?
Why do I write? For the broad scope of all these reasons and the horizons these reasons touch beyond. Why do I write?– well, why do I breathe? Why do I voluntarily harrow up the living forces of my sanity for words, for phrases, for metaphors and symbols and the like? Why do I care? Why am I vulnerable; is this weak?
No, this is freedom, ladies and gents.
Freedom. (And, in a world which is so undoubtedly captive, who would leave that privilege alone?) Writing makes you free.
Free are they who find out why.