I love to ask questions, and I admit, sometimes, the inexplicable nature of these queries troubles me. Especially in my teenage years, I felt that I was walking around with a stack of questions in my arms, straining me, draining my strength, with no one to confide in and nowhere to drop them. That’s why I write.   
In my stories, I don’t just find a safe space to dump my queries, but also, as the omnipotent raconteur, I get to answer them. I guess as I put the voices of different characters onto the page, I’m also talking to myself, challenging myself so that in this world that is exclusively mine, I can discover my unique perspective. Words, I feel like, are concrete for me, and when written, they give me a sense of formality and certainty. Thus, in a world where I barely have any say over anything I do (because, hey, I might not even have free will), I can express myself through writing.   
In a way, writing heals. Of course, time and time again, I love to talk to myself; however, putting my thoughts and feelings in writing is akin to a therapeutic melodrama. As I write, everything I internalized could be let out and let go, extrapolated upon, and result in a calming hum of emotions flowing onto the page. I love moments like these. I love moments where I can block out anything and everything. As I write, I finally understand what it means to be an individual in this increasingly isolated world: questions persist, and people don’t always listen. However, I guess that’s okay.   
When I’m writing, everything is okay.   
That’s why I write.