What does it mean to write? It is these:

I write because I am lacking.

I write because I am minute compared to the world I try to dissect, comprehend, to bleed for — sometimes, to change.

I write because I am full of desires. To desire is to finally claim my own lack. To desire is to reflect our weakness, says Atwood. I rephrase: to desire is to admit my littleness, to admit something I do not have, something I. Am. Not.

I write because I desire. I desire to say something, fuck you world, change the system, this has been a wonderful day,  living is painless. I desire to assert myself in a world preoccupied with too many things. I desire to attain, even feign a sense, even just a sense, of stability.

I write because I can admit I am weak but don’t just mope or weep in the corner of the room — an index of oblivion,  forgotten by significance, and activity.

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