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Description
Writing for the sake of writing, why do I write? Why should I write? I've asked myself these questions and many more. Why do I do the things I do? Why do I keep going on? Have I given up or am I just in stasis? What's going on anymore? The questions continue pounding in my head, I've tried ignoring them, but they're persistent. Write, write, write, I've been told to do this, and I know I should do this. It was what I worked for all these years, right? That it was the path I strode for, to write, because I enjoyed doing it. But that's just it, isn't it? Enjoyed, past tense of enjoy or enjoying. I don't enjoy writing anymore, I don't even know why I'm writing this. Maybe it was because my brain just gave up ignoring the questions burning my mind, endlessly knocking, striking until I gave in. I can't answer them with writing, at least, I don't think I can. At this point I'm just putting my thoughts into written form, but that's all writing ever was, wasn't it? Thoughts given a physical form. No, I was taught that writing was more than just thoughts, that it was a form of expression, but expression starts with a thought and then acted upon howsoever the thinker chooses. Ugh, at this point I'm just rambling, do I even have a point? Does writing have a point, at least to me does it have a point? I don't know what to think anymore, I'm out of touch with it. It's the friend you lose touch with in high school once you hit college, the hamster that let itself out of its cage to roam around your house, never to be seen again. Something insignificant, but can have an impact on your life at some point in time. I don't enjoy writing anymore, but I can't seem to stop it. My fingers are on automatic, the words are just pouring forth. My thoughts are going a million miles per hour, of course an exaggeration, but still. If I could go back in time, to the point where I wanted to become a writer, to write stories, to convey thoughts, to converse with people through the written language, would I tell myself not to do it? I actually have no idea to tell you the truth. I know I should keep writing, I have so many thoughts that can not be contained, it's like they get together with the questions and have tea on the weekends. It's rather a pain to be honest. I'm still writing, I haven't stopped yet. Am I enjoying it yet? I don't know, I'm not sure, I feel nothing. That's been a new norm for me, feeling nothing. Numb, unemotional, distant, alienated from everything. Being the person that was always there for others doesn't seem like me anymore, but then again, who was me to begin with? Am I human? Am I something else? Who am I? What am I? Am I me? Ugh, there go more questions, burning my mind, my skull, but skulls don't feel things like that right? Maybe I'm just losing it finally. Who knows, I've felt like I've lost it so many times, maybe this time it's happened for real. Reality, another thing I've lost touch with. What is real? What isn't real? Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Couldn't help that one, it was just building up to it, but again, the questions present themselves. Even if they did just pull a bad joke. Joke, I guess when you think about it, life is one big joke in itself. You're born, you live life, and then you die, rinse and repeat. The only questions we never really try to ask ourselves are: 'what happens after we're gone?' 'is there a light at the end of the tunnel?' 'will I be forgotten when I die?' Still more questions, these ones deserve no answers because they are unanswerable. Death is inevitable, everything must die in the end. As sad as that sounds, as cruel as it may be, it is a truth all must accept. Yet, I'm still afraid of that truth. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in that. The end always loom closer and when you least expect it, it.....

Description
Writing for the sake of writing, why do I write? Why should I write? I've asked myself these questions and many more. Why do I do the things I do? Why do I keep going on? Have I given up or am I just in stasis? What's going on anymore? The questions continue pounding in my head, I've tried ignoring them, but they're persistent. Write, write, write, I've been told to do this, and I know I should do this. It was what I worked for all these years, right? That it was the path I strode for, to write, because I enjoyed doing it. But that's just it, isn't it? Enjoyed, past tense of enjoy or enjoying. I don't enjoy writing anymore, I don't even know why I'm writing this. Maybe it was because my brain just gave up ignoring the questions burning my mind, endlessly knocking, striking until I gave in. I can't answer them with writing, at least, I don't think I can. At this point I'm just putting my thoughts into written form, but that's all writing ever was, wasn't it? Thoughts given a physical form. No, I was taught that writing was more than just thoughts, that it was a form of expression, but expression starts with a thought and then acted upon howsoever the thinker chooses. Ugh, at this point I'm just rambling, do I even have a point? Does writing have a point, at least to me does it have a point? I don't know what to think anymore, I'm out of touch with it. It's the friend you lose touch with in high school once you hit college, the hamster that let itself out of its cage to roam around your house, never to be seen again. Something insignificant, but can have an impact on your life at some point in time. I don't enjoy writing anymore, but I can't seem to stop it. My fingers are on automatic, the words are just pouring forth. My thoughts are going a million miles per hour, of course an exaggeration, but still. If I could go back in time, to the point where I wanted to become a writer, to write stories, to convey thoughts, to converse with people through the written language, would I tell myself not to do it? I actually have no idea to tell you the truth. I know I should keep writing, I have so many thoughts that can not be contained, it's like they get together with the questions and have tea on the weekends. It's rather a pain to be honest. I'm still writing, I haven't stopped yet. Am I enjoying it yet? I don't know, I'm not sure, I feel nothing. That's been a new norm for me, feeling nothing. Numb, unemotional, distant, alienated from everything. Being the person that was always there for others doesn't seem like me anymore, but then again, who was me to begin with? Am I human? Am I something else? Who am I? What am I? Am I me? Ugh, there go more questions, burning my mind, my skull, but skulls don't feel things like that right? Maybe I'm just losing it finally. Who knows, I've felt like I've lost it so many times, maybe this time it's happened for real. Reality, another thing I've lost touch with. What is real? What isn't real? Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Couldn't help that one, it was just building up to it, but again, the questions present themselves. Even if they did just pull a bad joke. Joke, I guess when you think about it, life is one big joke in itself. You're born, you live life, and then you die, rinse and repeat. The only questions we never really try to ask ourselves are: 'what happens after we're gone?' 'is there a light at the end of the tunnel?' 'will I be forgotten when I die?' Still more questions, these ones deserve no answers because they are unanswerable. Death is inevitable, everything must die in the end. As sad as that sounds, as cruel as it may be, it is a truth all must accept. Yet, I'm still afraid of that truth. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in that. The end always loom closer and when you least expect it, it.....