Laughing out Loud

I write because my parents never taught me proper coping mechanisms. They assumed that I would be okay dealing with piles and piles of inner and external turmoil. I think they didn't like asking if I was okay because they didn't want to hear the answer, which would have been no.

I write because I wonder who you are today. You are a different person each time we meet, and I can't bring myself to ask you why. I think I might understand, and sometimes, it makes me upset. Instead of asking, I write letters to you, and I never tell you about them. I'd rather you be happy than think you are alone.

I write because I feel uncomfortable when I look at the past, but I do so very often. I have moved on, forgiven and accepted, but have not yet forgotten. I feel sad and a bit hollow when I look at the things that I never should have seen, but I do it. A form of self induced suffering. Everyone enjoys a bit of suffering, especially when it is controlled. I make myself look at what I have already survived in order to face what is yet to come. Maybe it helps, but maybe it doesn't.

I write because of words, because of letters, because of sounds. I write because language makes sense but is creative and surprising all at once. It always makes sense, connects, flows, and is what everything is striving to be. It is always creative and unique, telling the story of something that no one knows. It is science and it is fiction. Language is whole. It is beautiful to both see and hear. Language fills up empty space.

I write because I don't know of anything else as powerful to do.

Except for laugh.