I write. I intend it as a broad statement, just as much as 'aerobic organisms require oxygen.' It would, in fact, be more correct to say that writing has come to be a prerequisite for my own well-being, as I have painfully found out in circumstances that made it impossible for me to write anything creative for long periods of time. Ah, daily routine, how I loathe thee!

I write for many reasons, probably for more than I can consciously put my fingers on. Most times, as I sit down in front of my PC or in a park holding a pen and a notebook, I clearly perceive that the reasons that drive me to write go far beyond my ability to fathom them at that time. Only through a lengthy process of mind-probing, diligently obeying to the often-abused and clichéd principle of gnothi seauton - a process far less mystical and much more viscerally physical than most people are usually led to or willing to think - only through it do I manage to grasp at least a portion of the powerful instinct that pulls my strings. As I write, I only feel the compulsion to.

Right now I know that I'm writing this as an addendum to my scanty profile, but yet again I feel a compulsion, a need to jot down my thoughts, that is far too strong for that to be the only reason. Being this a public blog, it might be that what I secretly wish for is some sort of hermeneutic exchange with the rest of the world. It might be that the secret motivation for all my writing in all of its forms, from the careless scribbling to the painstaking dissection of minor details in a plot, is the hope that, somehow, my words will manage to touch someone else. After all, an idea must touch another mind in order to survive.

Then again, maybe there is nothing more than the obvious to it. Maybe my compulsion to write is both the question and the answer, the enigma and the solution at the same time. Maybe my writing is nothing but yet another of the many manifestations of that will to power we all bear inside, some of us repressing it or unleashing it more than others. Well, the only things I know for a fact are that I can't stop writing, that my compulsion will be there lurking even though my inspiration is not, and that all the maybes and the might bes tend to give me a headache, yet I can't stop questioning my reasons.

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