Writing feels essentially a selfish act. An attempt to thwart mortality and live on in words, that in future, you will no longer be able to speak. The opportunity to tell a story that no one else in your life is willing to listen to. It requires time away from other social interactions. Carved out from the time you could spend with others. The focus taken away from all sorts of other priorities. Time all for yourself. A pleasure only for the extremely shy and introverted and antisocial. A feeling of guilt for me. A futile exercise. A waste of time.
Living alone in covid, writing feels less selfish. With families insulating themselves at home, the extroverted demands of society dropped precipitously. Writing becomes therapy. One hand clapping in the forest, never to be heard. An attempt to refine one's thoughts. The defence you never had a chance to voice in real time. A legacy you leave without knowing who it is for, if anyone. A voice in the wilderness, perhaps sent out only to the vibrations of the vast magnificent universe itself.
Writing feels like necessity. The vice of selfishness I was taught, I now see as self-preservation. The church's idea of centuries warping the ancient ideas of a spectrum. From a balance of yin and yang, to Aristotle's Golden Mean twisted into black and white. If it's not a virtue, it is a vice. Selflessness is the virtue. Selfishness, the vice. Leaving no room for self-care or self-preservation.
Writing is self-care. Writing is for self-preservation. Writing is for me.
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