30 or 40 years from now, I’d be nearing 70 years old and maybe too weak to ever grab a pen, too old to see my hand writing or maybe wouldn’t be able to comprehend what I have written.
True enough, for now, I write for myself – to get rid of my never-ending ideas in mind, baggage counter to my endless rants and opinions that I don’t get to say out loud sometimes. But for now, I write because I am at the peak of my health, my power and my life. I still have the capacity to do all these lovely things the world can offer and still have a sound mind to work on my dreams.
Writing is my way of flash backs, the way for me to rewind my life and it’s how I reflect and deflect on the past – both good and bad. It made me revisit my old self – to evaluate how it has been for the last few years and to see how I’d improve.
It’s my way of getting to know myself. But at the same time, it’s an extension of myself too. Especially those who doesn’t know me and judge me. I am always a victim of first impression – well, I think everyone is.
I want to write, for you to know me – how I think and at the very least, spread my beliefs and so with how I think. I write because when the time comes that I’d be weak or may be done with my mission here, people will still learn from some wisdom I get to acquire during my prime age. I write because writing ceases the moment into a memory where I can go back to anytime. I write how blessed I am just so I won’t forget it when I feel sad or if problems infest me and my idealism.
Writing is a way for me release myself to the world when all they do is trying to impress people they don’t like. I write because I am an old soul in this new generation.