Why do you write?

I adore words. I love, admire, lust after, am obsessed and captivated with, am enamored, enchanted, captivated, and possessed by words.

But all that make up our words are symbols, meaningless little lines and dots. Somehow we can "read" them, and to people like you and me, they mean something. They mean everything. So when someone asks me why I write, all I can do is laugh. Because if they actually have to ask, there's really no way they could ever understand. Could ever understand what it feels like to have a raw idea pound through your veins, thicker than blood, refusing to give you a moment of peace until you furiously let your fingers fly in one last desperate act to relieve your fragile mind of this, this pure pain. Because that is the ultimate conundrum about words and writing and simply life in general; the very thing that traps you is the only thing that feels like freedom.

just a thought from a teen ruthlessly procrastinating.