I have sought to understand, for roughly six years now, why I write–and the value of writing as a whole. I did not have much of a proclivity for writing, or for many things, as a child, except being a child. I was completely ordinary, in a fantastic sense. It wasn’t until 2020 that I began writing. After pursuing degrees in three unrelated fields for varying durations, I settled on English, with a focus in creative writing, thus concluding my time at university.
I still feel ordinary in most ways, which I am beginning to relish more and more with time. We have become an overly ambitious people, and with that, we have lost sight of many good things, simple things. We have in some ways, it seems, traded the love of a few superlative things for the fading admiration of many, good things, though lesser. In that, we chase what is permissible, trading it for what is most beneficial, as the Tarsian wrote to a now-ancient people.
That may be it, the reason for writing. Not wholly, but in part. That there is an unfolding of the nature of mankind that is worthwhile, like one who opens the pages of a book. And upon examination, many things, both beautiful and loathsome, may be found. We live in such a curious world.
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