Why I Write | Teen Ink

Why I Write

July 12, 2014
Madmango SILVER,
6 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Red. I just placed a red cup on the table. What do you see? I see the color red. I see the color of blood of a fallen soldier on a battlefield of a warring nation—nasty, gushing scars from a piercing gunshot—the “red badge of courage” I see bursting bombs lighting the smoky once-blue-now-gray sky. I see the glaring eyes, full of hatred and anger, of a looming shadowy beast. I see beautiful red roses dancing in delight in a gentle breeze. I see someone being loved. I see bravery and courage. I see the color of luck and prosperity. Red is the color of a monster, but red is also the color of heroes.

You look at one thing, maybe a flower peeking through the glass window or a fluttering moth desperately trying to cling on to life, and you see a hundred different things from a hundred different perspectives. You look at a tiny green leaf fluttering down towards the barren ground and you may think of freedom, beauty, isolation maybe even of death. When you see this you may feel happy, sad, dare I say, inspired? I look at the sky and it reminds me of an ocean—endless, mysterious, full of wonder and opportunities—and I am inspired. I remember a long forgotten sunset—a once vibrant blue sky changing slowly into a myriad of vivid red, orange and yellow as a fiery orb descends from the sky—and I become inspired. Every masterpiece, whether it be Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Harry Potter, Robin Hood, The Starry Night, the Mona Lisa, The Thinker, doesn’t just come up out of nowhere; They all start with one thing: inspiration. In fact, even sounds give me inspiration. The precise, delicate tinkling of glass wind chimes remind me of harsh, icy yet beautiful carefully-crafted snowflakes in the loud silence of winter. The sound of a woodpecker continuously pecking on the knot of an oak tree in the ‘wildwood’ reminds me of a warm, rustic wooden cabin in the middle of a forest. These are all the things that bring about this sensation, or miracle, known as inspiration.

When inspiration hits, it becomes a longing to act. You feel inspired because you have something to work around. You feel motivated because you have something more spectacular than unseen masterpieces, unacknowledged artwork, and unknown stories. Everybody analyzes things differently, and the way one sees things reflects what they feel, what they’ve gone through, and their desires. This is why a story or an essay can reflect exactly who the author is. Writing is the way to give inspiration the shape it craves for. That is why I write.

I write to remember the memories I long forgotten and my dreams that haven’t yet happened. I write to remember the past and forgive myself. I write to forget—to rid myself of the unwanted memories. I write of the unpredictable future. I write to free myself of the heavy chains of reality. I write to express my thoughts I haven’t shared. I write because my secret self needs some air. I write to do the impossible. I write to create my own world. I write to create a symphony of welcoming words on a desolate, blank sheet of paper. I write because others teach me to. I write because I can. I write so that my inspiration can have shape. I write because I have too many ideas. I write to capture a moment and hear a symphony of words. I write to repay the world. I write to use the valuable, unappreciated gift of words and knowledge. I write because I don’t want my dreams to fly away—Langston Hughes taught people to “Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go, Life is a barren field frozen with snow.” I want to be remembered. I want to live; because if I don’t write these overflowing thoughts would drive me insane. I write because if I don’t I won’t truly be alive.

The author's comments:
There is always a reason to why we write. This are my reasons.

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