the most important reason or purpose for someone or something’s existence.
There are many reasons why I write and from day to day each has its time being the number one. I think most writers can relate to them, and they may have many more besides.
Yes, I have a story to tell. Mine is a sad, but hopeful one, and I hope to inspire others with it. Yes, I have emotions I want to express. I’ve felt deep love and crushing pain and I want to share it all with the world. Yes, I hope to change the world too. I want to bring sight to the blind and feeling back into the dead. Yes, I even hope to find success and maybe make a living at writing too. The life of a writer draws and fascinates me.
Those are all good reason to write but none of them are the real reason that I write. Deep down there is a far simpler and yet, more profound reason.
I write because it feels like the thing I was born to do and I believe when something pulls at you like that, it is the thing you must use to prove your own existence. “I think, therefore, I am.” they say, “I write, therefore, I was.” is what I say.
Every moment every human on this earth is marching toward his or her death. We cannot stop it and we cannot know when we have come to the end. When you are gone, if you have not prepared for it, it can be as if you never existed.
I hate that I have to die but I hate the idea of being forgotten even more. People have to know I was here. I have to know that when I die there is a part of me that can go on living and having an affect on people and this world. I want to always be a force in this universe.
I refusing to let go of this world when it is my time. Everything I create is one big “Lisa was here!” sign. I am trying to make my name mean something and I am trying to make that meaning significant.
When I write I think of the Dylan Thomas’s poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight. It is one of my favorite poems and while it was written for Thomas’s father, the message—to cling to life all the way to the end of it—can be an inspiration to us all. When I write I hear him whispering “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”. The more I write the louder he gets. The louder he gets the faster I type.
I will not go gently into the night. I will rage and maybe, if I get better and I say something worth remembering, I can always be a part of this world long after I am dead and gone.
Written in response to this week’s Discover Challenge, Raison D’être
Featured image via Pixabay