“I think the voices are my own, different parts of my conscious and subconscious mind…”
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A while back I saw a call for submissions entitled “Why I write”. I did what I normally do: brushed it off and filed it away into the back of my mind. The back of my mind is a place filled with stuff. If it were a warehouse, there would be tottering stacks of boxes and crates piled high and stretching as far as the dim light would allow your eyes to see. Mapping my mind would require a section without lines or boundaries marked simply “here there be dragons”. What I’m trying to say is the back of my mind is at the same time endlessly disorganized and dark with danger lurking around every corner but with an incurable pull on my psyche, drawing me down whenever the lure becomes too great.
The back of my mind isn’t the only problem. The front and sides of my mind are constantly cluttered with thoughts and voices. No, the voices aren’t commanding me to do anything, at least not that I can hear. I think the voices are my own, different parts of my conscious and subconscious mind, constantly working in overdrive, rushing through and presenting thoughts faster than I can process them. It’s loud and confusing, I can tell you that much. That’s why so much gets shoved aside, down deep and back into the warehouse. I simply cannot keep track of it all. The best analogy I can come up with is driving down an urban highway during rush hour, but while trying to keep track of traffic, you also have to watch the road signs that are somehow posted every thirty feet. It’s not possible, and at some point your mind ends up on cruise control. That’s what it’s like to be in my head, especially when I don’t have a clear directive or task to focus on.
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I drive them out like a priest drives out a demon.
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Why do I write? I write to exorcise my ideas. I drive them out like a priest drives out a demon. Perhaps the demon analogy gives the wrong impression. These ideas aren’t evil, though they do sometimes possess my mind, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. The truly persistent ones get written down, clearing them from my head. Putting my ideas to paper traps them, for a short period of time, within the hard drive of my computer, where they either languish and die or are published for all to see. Sometimes the ideas, my children of sorts, deserve to be released from their prison. They have the potential, if I’m skilled enough, to do real good in the world.
Those ideas that are poorly conceived, underdeveloped, or both will sometimes escape their electronic prisons. Somehow they worm their way like a virus back into the depths of my mind, growing into a worthy contribution. I’ve learned to accept my imaginary offspring with open arms rather than fighting their intrusion. It wasn’t easy. There have been days in the past when my head was so loud, so crowded that it felt as though it may explode. Those days are nearly unbearable.
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Until September of 2014, it had been over a decade since I’d done any writing. Yes, my masters degree required essays and papers, but nothing that allowed me the freedom to express my thoughts. I had forgotten the simple joy of writing, of putting pen to paper or the rhythmic clacking of fingers on a keyboard. Once remembered, it was as if an explosive release occurred, and I was churning out article after article, sometimes two or three a week. My mind, typically racing with ideas, was finally quiet.
As with all things though, the quiet didn’t last. Eventually, new ideas were born, old ideas found their way back from the darkness, and the necessity to place myself in front of the screen was reawakened. Why do I write? I write because it frees me from the prison in my head. I write because words are powerful. I write because I it feels as though I must to retain my sanity. I write because a few of my brainchildren have done good for others. I write because it feels right. I don’t write for anyone else, for the money, the notoriety, or the attention. I write because I must. I write for a few moments of quiet and to maintain my sanity.
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