Why I Do What I Do

Why do I write?
Why do I slouch myself over a laptop, a notebook and a pen on weekends?
Why do I wait for words to dance before me like someone wishing for rain on a dry summer afternoon?
Why do I surround myself with books like there is no other escape?
Why do I let my emotions run wild and free on a piece of paper better?
Why do I seek comfort in words and not mortal mirth?
Why do I stare endlessly at blank sheets and the void sky?
Why do I let the tea boil over and spill on my toes while I think of Patricias and Adichies?
Why do I let Virginia Wolf and Simone de Beauvoir strengthen me like strong coffee?
Why do I let words heal all hurt?
Why do words let me undo those tight stitched masks and be the flaw?

I guess it's all because underneath each word is fear.
Fear of being banished from the realm of words
Fear of words escaping their authenticity and fierceness with the passing of time
Fear of being unable to map my thoughts
Fear of losing
Fear of being disbelieved
Fear of not being able to explain where it hurts and how
Fear of never finishing that race well
Fear of just existing and not living

I'm scared and so I write.