In the past few weeks, I found myself struggling to write an article. It's interesting how easily one can begin a task and as time passes by, slowly, ever so slowly, you find your motivation diminishing. You question who you are to do this action. What information could you possibly know? What people would want to read your writings?

I had the analytics that showed me that although not crazy numbers, my words had indeed been read more than I thought possible. And although I told myself this, I found my convictions crumbling little by little. It didn't start strong, merely a slight procrastination in my starting time, or the words not quite coming to mind as they should. The writing became less and less appealing and I found my hands getting weaker and weaker as a voice grew stronger and stronger that asked a question I increasingly could not ignore. "Why am I writing?".

Why am I writing? Why am I writing? Why am I writing? This one single question gripped me. It's a simple question at its face but not to me. To me, this question grew grander and grander. It encompassed my mind and invaded my dreams. It asked and asked and asked. It lingered, it festered and it scared. Initially, I wanted to impart what I've learned and share it with others. But that wasn't right. The answer whilst not quite wrong also didn't feel right. Maybe I'll write and make this a side hustle business, I've heard such stories. Again that didn't feel right for I know how statistically unlikely that is. The odds didn't seem in my favor and I always knew that. Do I do it for fun? Do I do it for reflection? Do I do it for attention? Do I do it for spite?

I looked at my last posts and re-read my first post, and as I did a growing realization dawned on me. In my first article, I was emotional and animated. I spoke from my heart and told a tale that whilst not unique and unheard of, felt right to me. As I went on, to my next article, I adopted the framework of a textbook. A cold, factual, unfeeling textbook. I pushed my personality aside in favor of getting straight to the point and being informative. I told myself articles should get to the point and tried to game the SEO with the help of AI. I chose images to intrigue what I might not have felt. I presented words of fact but no worlds with meaning could be found. I made a site with my name, and I couldn't be found in it.

So my strength faded and the words stopped coming. Sadly, I failed to be the bringer of information for it seems, I could never truly be that to begin with. Why can I not be that I asked and the answer was self-evident. I do not enjoy reading textbooks, I enjoy reading stories. Sadly I cannot be clinical in my writing and I have a bad habit of getting lost in my ramblings. Information it seems is not my passion, nor is it my desire, nor is it my goal. A story I seek to tell. A story I seek to share. To speak and maybe be heard. To speak, even when not heard.

And so, I abandon the land of facts for it seems not to be my home. I continue my journey, through the great unknown. I'll wander into the land of dreams, and hopefully tell tales of the sights I see. Facts it seems are not where I am meant to be. Facts it seems, do not call to me.

With all this said, the question comes to me again. "Why do I write?". I do not know why. But I will continue to try. I'll write tales. I'll write articles. I'll write poems. I'll write nonsense. But write I must, for it seems, that writing is for me.