Why do we write? That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.

We have worlds inside of us, every one. Every person is a compilation of billions of nerve cells, experiences, thoughts, moments woven together by a tentative string of continuity. And we dream. While we’re asleep, while we’re awake; our minds are trapped inside cramped, dark holes shaped from bone, with sensory stimuli pumped in and interpreted on the fly. And in between what our sensory organs are pumping into the fatty, salty sacks of firing electricity, they combine it all and spit out impulses that we consciously translate into thoughts.

We write because we need to make sense of the chaos soup that is living.

And more importantly, we write because we know ways that life can be different. If there were different people, different circumstances, different worlds. Or maybe the same people that walk in and out of our lives, but they say different things, take different actions.

We write because sometimes, we need the thoughts to solidify. We need them to be repeatable. And yet, every time we read these thoughts, we bring a different version of ourselves to their interpretations.

We write to connect our present selves with our past selves. And maybe, just maybe, to connect with each other.