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There are days when I knock my head on the wall, confused at the very purpose of this medium. Somewhere between the internal and external turmoil of my life, and underneath the critical surface of my devices, the question of writing’s purpose hounds me.

Is writing, in this day and age, aimed at the least, only for the improvement of human welfare: that is must please, it must move, it must essentially inspire and make a difference? That writing must always dream to move another object, that it is a pursuit only honored when it seeks to challenge society?

Words, fickle words, arranged and rearranged, maneuvered by the cunning of emotion and tempered by human reason – or the limits of it – are at the end of the day, just words, limited so far as volatile homo sapien sentiments are concerned, and concerned only so far as it can get a message across.

the purpose of writingHave we come to expect personal ramblings as this profound tool of reform? Have we come to expect writing to always be, and only be, a critical commentary of our relative societies? Can we not just write for the sake of? Can we not just be cruel to ourselves and to others for the sake of?

Can we not just be in love and write about it, and care less if people think time is better spent using the pen, or at least the keyboard, in political affairs or cultural pursuits? And isn’t it severely unfair to come and place such high expectations on this primarily raw endeavor, to come and think of “changing” and “making a difference in society” as a standard, a prerequisite before these words are considered as writing.

I am also beginning to wonder if there is really any goodness in writing. Or at least, goodness derived. All my life, I’ve refused to be associated with anything vile. But writing, this endeavor I’ve taken to simply express, has begun to plant seeds of doubt on its true purpose, on its kindness, or seeming kindness. Worrying about whether what I post will hurt anyone is almost secondary now. I worry if what I write will be harmful to self.

Does letting it all out always encourage the best? Does expressing, rather than keeping things inside, always mean no evil? Those of us who write, regardless if we consider ourselves writers, novelists, poets or even journalists; those of us who spend a good amount of our lives in this life of letters, do we ever resume our lives outside of it, unscathed by having expressed our deepest, most intimate reflections?

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

― Ernest Hemingway