Questions II

  Why...? again that diminutive word echoes within me. This time however it is followed by perhaps a more complex question. Why do I write? Why does one write? What is the purpose for ones writing?

  And so my journey for knowledge and understanding continues. Knowledge and understanding of what? you may ask. Knowledge and understanding of myself and perhaps of my environment and the universe which spawned me. To what purpose? you may further inquire. In the hopes of gaining the sufficient knowledge and experience so that I may in some minute way change for the better that tiny little corner of the world I come from. So then again the question echoes in me,  Why does one write? and from this one question so many others spring forth...

    Does one write to express ones self to others? to perhaps allow others to understand our way of thinking? does one write simply to entertain others? to allow them to escape from their own realities? does one write to try to convince others of our line of thought? to persuade them to adopt our ideals? our thoughts? our way of acting? or perhaps to impose our philosophy upon them? Does one really write to influence others? or is our need for writing something less altruistic and a bit more selfish? Do we write not simply to express that which lies within our hearts, within our entrails, within the deepest recess of our souls to others but indeed to express it to our own selves? perhaps to express it to that one being whose mind can in the deepest sense of the word really understand us? Are we writing to enlighten others? ourselves? or is our constant explorations of that white empty piece of paper driven by something else? do we constantly go to it to simply escape our own reality? to escape our own thoughts? to escape our own sorrows? to escape that which lies within us and has caused us so much pain? or is it, that each one of us has a reason of his own for writing? could it be that the only reason for my sporadic excursions into those white empty papers is to precisely escape my reality? could it be that I have actually deluded myself into thinking that I am a half way decent writer, when in reality I am nothing more than a mere fool who has erroneously thought that his words, his thoughts, his ideas, are worth putting on paper? fool who cannot possibly express himself in the spoken word, and even less in the written word? Could it be possible that I use this means not as a tool of expression, but as a shield of protection? a shield which protects me from the constant bombardment of thoughts and ideas which others express minute by minute, hour by hour? or maybe not a shield, but a weapon, a weapon which I use to lash out at others, to attack those who fail to understand me, to insult those who do not agree with me, to malign those whose way of thinking is different than mine? to hurt those whom I feel are inferior than I? are they? am I?

  A fool indeed I am, for only a wise man can ask and answer,  but a fool can only ask and continue asking,  for his mind is not wise enough to answer those questions which it constructs, and of course that one diminutive question continuous to echo deep within him, deep within me. Why...?