Why do I write, if not to be read?
Why do I live, if not to love?
Of course, both these questions are not as simple as binary switches. And yet they also are. Schrödinger’s musings — dead and alive, neither dead nor alive, until you open the box.
I spent so long wandering alone that I had forgotten so many — too many things. Never really aimless, but lacking any sort of real focus. Never really directionless, but drifting wherever the current took me.
Why do I write, if not to be read? Because it acts as some sort of ventilation, a pressure release. Because it’s easier to put words on paper or a screen than for me to vocalize, often. Because things deserve to be related and remembered, if only by future versions of me.
Paraphrased, because my memory ain’t photographic (though way more photogenic than it’s owner): “I think I drink less with you. I’m not as depressed.”
And I poked at that statement, laughingly and lovingly. But at the same time, I get it.
I used to wonder how futile it was, the idea of two humans dealing with mental illness partnering up. But as I aged, I began to realize that not only are more people emotionally imbalanced than I thought (and way more than will even admit), but those of us that understand ourselves are better equipped to understand and empathize with each other. That’s the sort of thing that’s crucial to communication, which is in turn crucial to any kind of successful relationship.
And, like I responded, “at least we can be less depressed together.”
Reading her words was (and remains) incredibly touching to me — I’ve always dreamed of moving someone enough that they created something for or inspired by me. It was never a goal — any more than winning the lottery, or whatever else you can imagine that requires more luck than anything else. But it was, like winning the lottery, a hope, a desire — something I never gave up on, even though there was nothing I could do to improve the odds.
And also, beyond the realized hope — the words themselves. So incredibly powerful, even in such a compact telling. For future reference, I was moved to (sincere) tears by the thoughtfulness of the moment.
Why do I live, if not to love? Because I never give up on my dreams, even if there’s more luck involved than anything else. Because sometimes, the current takes you exactly where you are supposed to be. Because I never stop hoping for everything in it’s right place.