Today I was asked why I love to write so much. I could have answered anything, but the truth is as simple as a blank page or a bare wall. Where others may see nothing, I see endless potential. On a clean sheet of paper I see the vivacious spark of my imagination sprawled vivid on the page. When I’m wasting away hours alone in my apartment staring at the insipid wall, I am conjuring up a world in which I am not alone, repudiated, or a triviality of society. Instead, all the facets of my rationale and personalities within are conscripted to populate a far more interesting world than the one in which I reside.
For me, there is liberation in fiction and escape in the written word. In the lies of the fabricated and imagined there is more truth than could ever be discovered by seeking the bias of a theologian or the misinformation of a scholar. There is substance in fantasy, free of the prejudice, hatred, and despondency of real life. In the made up, anything can be revealed.
Take this post, for instance. I was never asked why I love to write so much. It was a fiction contrived to bare out this fact.