Why Write?

Why write?

That is a question I have been asking

 myself a lot since I decided to start writing again. Mainly because of my insecurities.

Why write, if everything has already been written? What else could I add to the world? Who am I to think my opinion matters?

Then, I see so many manipulators so confidently shouting their lies to the world, while so many people listen and agree with them.

Then I see the damage.

Could I make a difference by voicing my points of view? Am I right about them anyway? Who is right? What is right? Who knows the absolute truth? There is no way of knowing that. But we try our best, by observing and learning and living (though some don’t want to learn, they just want to be right). So much is learned from our experiences combined with our senses, emotions and rational thoughts. And, as social beings, we want to share the things we have learnt.

If there is one thing that the internet has taught us about ourselves, is how much we value our own opinions. How much we want to position ourselves in the world and show what we believe in and what we do not believe in. Now we know the hollow opinions of people that we never asked for. And I feel that, despite all my insecurities, I do want to share my opinions too. Which I do in a way, by sharing posts on social media. So why do I need more? Maybe that’s how you know you are a writer. Because of that burning sensation inside, that needs to come out in the form of writing. That is my main form of expression, my way of contributing to the world.

Since I was very young I knew that I wanted to be a writer. But life got in the way and I went off track, running away from myself, because I was often made to believe that everything I wanted and everything I liked was wrong. Including writing. I then had to run away to try to find myself, but I couldn’t, because I was running further and further away from myself. Every now and then though, I stop to listen to myself, to find the remnants of what was to be and what I can make of it. The old voices that tell me I’m wrong are still there, telling me to run again.

All the running did not go to waste though. I did learn about myself, about others, about the world. I lost myself to find a vast world of possibilities of what I could be, of what life could be. I found in me the strength to keep on learning about myself, about humanity, about the universe. And how great it is for a writer to find inside of them the whole universe! So I decided I need to write.

Now with the rise of AI I can feed it with my years of lived experiences and learnings. Just like a pet, I will feed it for free so it can grow stronger and stronger. But what kind of pet is AI? Can I trust it? Can it be tamed? Will it eventually eat me? Who will feed it then?