Today I'm forcing myself to write about why I don't write anymore, just to make some sense of it, maybe.

I used to write a lot of things - worried thoughts, discoveries, trivialities... Everything can be made to sound good anyway. But these days I rather not write because I think too quickly - when did I learn to give myself such high praise? Laugh with me here. There's an example of making something sound good. I tell myself I think too quickly, when more likely, it's just become harder and harder for me to remember - to keep things in my head before I even get to write them down. Keep has to be the most fragile word don't you think? It's the saddest to me, too. To keep is the biggest deception of all. But I suppose it is the struggle that makes remembrance such a symphony.

Forgive the theories littered in this entry; this is a journal of "whys," no less. Maybe I don't write because writing has lost its meaning - maybe it never had one in the first place. What has it been to me but a means to an end? I never want writing to be a weapon or an instrument; it is too fragile to ever use, lest it be damaged by my coarse hands, my untamed mind.

People write because they want to tell a story, to others or to themselves. Some people write to define things: how their day went, how life treats them, what something meant - how it doesn't matter, how it might. Some people write to remember. Some to forget.

In my experience, people usually only write with one person in mind anyway. We open up our lives to strangers when we write journals and post them online but at the end of the day, there's this one person we hope would read it - to be blunt about it, someone whose attention we are craving for. As we secretly think of them thinking of us, maybe they begin to. Such a cliche, throwing things into the wind and hoping it carries something back to us.

Nowadays my life holds no secrets. Maybe that's why I don't write anymore. I don't need to write things down for bait, because I have the person I want to talk to with me, and he isn't hidden in haze or ambiguities. Even as I write this I see his face clearly, and it looks at me with quiet understanding. He will know more about me than any blog entry will ever ask him to. Here I realize, instead of stopping me from writing, this should free me. And it does. Now I can write for myself, or for what I'm writing about - for anything I wish.

If you don't do it, it will cease to exist. Writing, I mean. And I never want it to. Too many things fade away in this life. Writing shouldn't be one of them. Why? Because some things just have to be passed on. Life's too heartbreakingly beautiful to not. And writing's all about it. It can't exist without.

My difficulty in writing is in making sense of it. Why do I write? To change the world? We all know better. Writing is the struggle for a balance between oneself and the world around him. It can be powerful beyond measure - what do you want people to see? How do you want them to think? ...Do you really want a part in all of it? The questions that are hardest to deal with are the ones without a proper answer. You can always say what you think, but you will never know. And that is how writing goes. All you really know is that you have written.

I suppose the rest is figuring little things out along the way.