Why do I write?

I write because I have nothing better to do. Seriously. I can't think of anything more fun than playing with someone's mind. Oh, you don't think of it that way? But it is, if you get down to the heart of the matter. You make people see, feel, hear, believe what you want. Writing is manipulation in its purest form. Have you ever cried when you read something really sad? Or laughed at something funny? Then you've experienced the power the author holds over your mind. And that is another fundamental issue, that power. We all crave it; I'm no different. It's a wonderful thrill, the feeling I get when I see I've received a review, good or bad. I know then that I've had enough influence on this person's mind to nudge them into telling me so. Manipulation, easy enough. Hrm, now I'm sounding like a whacked psychologist. 'Tis okay, though, cause I've roped you into reading this, and If you've got this far you're unlikely to back out now, unless I get really boring. So no, just to keep you on your toes, I'll change topics. Have you ever had that feeling of, I don't know quite how to describe it. something like anxiousness, frustration, eagerness, serious caffine high, blood pounding in you angry mind . the need to communicate what you are? Your view on the world? Your innermost soul? It's like an all-consuming disease, that awe-filled, hateful desire to say what can't be said in words. The mother of all love/hate relationships, that. God, it's a wonderful feeling, like liquid power just waiting to meet my lips. But the agony! Like. I don't know, like a child standing outside a locked candy store, a taunting memory flitting at the edges of you mind that will be forever beyond you view, an ice cold river in the middle of summer when you know you can't swim. Damnable despair! It's so. beautiful. It's the ultimate rush, like breathing heaven. Touching the sky, however high, impossible glory, only a story. but so much more. It's the water of life, making you immortal, but only for a moment. Like being God, your own world to create, to love, to hate and destroy, anything and all things. It shivers with its own life, silver ice and vengeful fire! Burning, weeping acid tears, void dancing behind unfathomable eyes. Rending darkness and gleaming razors, ancient warmth, loving hate. Soulsong. That's what I write. The music of my dream. But that's a tangent, no? I'm explaining why, not what. Heh, I'm rather fond of tangents, it seems. This entire essay is a tangent. I was supposed to be writing something for other people to read, not a one sided argument with my sane mind. She seems to think that I'm not so foolish as to believe everything I write. But that's a lie; at a basic level I believe every word I've ever written. Or at least a part of me does. It's difficult to explain, this issue of belief. It's not like I take it all literally. I don't believe, for example, that I have more than one mind, as I have implied. I do believe, however, that the mind is faceted, like a well-cut diamond. Everything looks different depending on how I turn it. One entity, many, many ways to see. You know what? I'm beginning to confuse myself. That's the wonder of it all. I'm trying to explain my mind, and I'm only managing to confuse myself. Sad, neh? Can't even try to describe the world in my head without getting messed up. It's just the way we are, I guess. What a foolish human I am.