I write. I don't write because I want to. I write because I have to.
Talking is a hard, overwhelming, confusing art form that involves altogether too many social cues and this magical ability to think on your feet. It's an art that I seem unable to master. Everything I say manages to be warped and come out wrong. I regret it as soon as it leaves my mouth but it's talking and it's too late to take it back now. Some days I want to scream because no matter how hard I try, the person that I want to show people is stuck in this stupid little bubble. I can't get her out. Either she refuses to come or my brain refuses to let her. Perhaps my brain knows that this awkward, unconfident girl that I present isn't actually me. Perhaps it knows that the blow of people not liking the real me would be greater than I could possibly bear. It stubbornly keeps me safe and locked away so the world can't touch me.
And so I become paper. I pour my heart out into words that I can think about, in places that I can trust; I become the characters that I write about and all of my emotions go into them. On paper the bubble bursts. I'm free to be myself and say what I want and do what I want. I can keep anybody out or let anybody in. There are no rules on paper.
I write. I don't write because I want to. I write because I have to.
I write so that maybe, someday, people will read it and see the person that I wanted to show them, see that there's more to me than my silence and my awkwardness. I write because maybe, just maybe, if people understood that I wasn't trying to be rude or stuck-up; if they understood that I am actually quite capable of sensible thought, just that it's a bit constrained by my overly protective brain, maybe then they'd see the bubble. And maybe, if I was lucky, somebody would take the time to pop it.
I write. I don't write because I want to. I write because I have to.