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Lately I have not had the urge to write on a regular basis.  It’s not that my life is dull or I have suddenly lost all my opinions.  No, it is because of something much simpler.  I simply stopped.

To be honest though, I miss it.

I miss the creative outlet.  I miss the consistency that resulted from it.  I miss the ability to process what I’m going through on a regular basis.  Most of all, writing brings me a good deal of comfort and I miss that.

I don’t know if I’ll ever aspire to the angst filled writing of Hemingway, seeking the one true word or sentence or chapter.  That is simply too torturous for me.  I find myself varying between the stream of consciousness posts, while other times I simply cut my finger and bleed on the page.  Either way, I find a place of refuge in the written word.

I think that’s why I write.

I write for the same reason why I run—it brings freedom and a measure of hope.  I write because it feels good after I have a completed a page (or mile) or two.  I write because it brings joy and fullness.  I write because it is a place I can inhale and exhale, working out frustrations with a mild dose of lucidity.  To be dramatic, I write so that I can be free.

Why do you write?

Photo Credit: Walt Stoneburner via Compfight cc