In my last written project, where I shared my thoughts during depression, I wrote often about writing and its purpose, or rather its point which was never clearly defined both in my writing or in my head. And this is surprising because already in college I tended to carry around a simple thought that a writer simply wants to share their worldview with the world at large. I even remember getting passionate about a suggestion that a writer would want to consciously trick their audience or maliciously craft a delusion to lead astray, cause chaos, or simply escape from the truth.
But I suppose all of those reasons (and other) come with writing and living itself. Gazing upon the reality that is in front of me, I choose to let myself slip into illusions and dreams and though I do not want to deceive myself, I do not mind simply existing for a couple of seconds in the what if and the maybe moments.
Could that be the simple point of writing and living through the written word? A sort of escape from what is inevitable and what is real though we can’t prove it to be so? An edited stream of consciousness inspired by the inklings of our thoughts and movements of our sentiments and general chaos of being alive and not understanding consciousness? For it is true that if we can choose our own poison, our own oblivion, I would too choose a physical touch over an imagined word, a sort of reality being more comforting than a purely fantastical world. But when that choice is not ours or it’s unavailable or it’s tainted with regrets, then writing is there to catch us and give us a little assumed control again. And through the written word we share our worldview, our piece of bliss, our unavoidable pain with those who dare to read.