- 11 Posts
- Age 16
I’ve been told there’s art in engineering. Designing buildings and structures. Discussing aesthetics before you even get your hands on your first blueprint. But this isn’t the art I’ve been craving. This isn’t the art you find in words.
He stared at the academic awards that lined the shelves in my room. He glanced at the certificates from the mathematics competitions. I explained to him that from the age of ten, I’ve had a future set for me carved in stone. Carved in mathematics, computer science, technology, engineering. “Not literature?” He asked, and I shook my head. So he turned to me and asked me why I write.
I write because I need to. Because I need a way to explain. I need to explain what I see and how I feel. I need others to understand. I need them to see through my eyes; I need them to read the words I write and feel the way I feel.
I write because I need a break from the math and the science, but this break isn’t one of relaxation. It’s one of tearing myself open and seeing what’s inside. Seeing what I can write about.
I write because the words don’t just belong to me, they are me. Writing is emptying everything I’ve ever felt onto paper, into a way that others can see and feel. I write because the more I empty myself into words, the less empty I feel.
I write because I’ve never craved anything more than that.