I’ve written a few essays lately. This is the fourth within a few weeks. The first one is in my main account, along with an essay I wrote some months earlier. The second and third essays from this few-weeks’ period are in the same account as this one.

         I wonder why I write these essays. Could it possibly be my latest way of letting out stress?

         When I was younger, I would dive into my video games and books, to escape the harsh reality of my various schools and the popular kids who despised me. When I was thirteen I discovered a chatroom, and began online roleplaying as well. I buried myself in these fictional worlds—so much so that in recent years I’ve experienced hallucinations.

         Sometimes when I was mad, I would listen to music. I would put my headphones on, and crank up the volume. I’d sing along so loudly that my mother would have to come into the room and scream before I would hear her.

         In recent months, I took to writing poetry and songs when I was upset. Grim, morbid stuff. Poems about Heaven being a place of torture. Songs about dying in shame. I sometimes think I let out too much stress this way, as anger eventually became near impossible for me to attain. I was so horrified by myself—and my inability to express this horror in any way beyond cheerfully tapping out more angst and terror—that I nearly panicked and demanded that my father schedule an appointment with my therapist, whom I’ve been seeing regularly for the past five years.

         But lately, I’ve been writing essays. Nothing special, altho’ I will be writing one on homosexual marriage as an assignment for my history class soon. But my most recent essays, including this one, have been written on the spur of the moment, with no outside encouragement or assignment, for no reason other than for the sake of writing them.

         I wonder—why?