Writing saved my life.

'I have hope because I can write it.'

    These string of words, whomever quoted them or if they were quoted at all, resonate with me. I am a very, extremely directionless person, but I have hope because I can write it. Of course, it, in this case, is prose and poetry, known to me, as my passion in life. One could say, I have cause to live within both these things.

    I remember a time back whence I was simply he who played video games, and make no mistake I still do play, it is just that now, writing has entered my life... I know right? Great changes. But I digress, I do recall being fit to simply live to play and die whenever so. I'd say life was but a fleeting dream then, there was only concern as to whether fun was being had or the opposite.

    These thoughts, fulminating, holding grasp upon the young mind, gave rise to a great distress later on. What is it that I wish to do? Am I simply content to this lot in my life? Wherefor would all this experience of mechanic and narrative be justified? And will I ever put my skill in English to use?

    I was, as some would put it, having a crisis of purpose. There was nothing here nor there for me, that was my thought. Raised to speak the language of Shakespeare and Milton, but living in a land where that is practically useless in day to day living. A tough break, it was comparable to an alien crashlanding on earth with no chance to go home.
    There was a piece of me that was ready to give it up, because I felt as though the world was nothing for me, that everything except the consumption of games, films, books, and music was impossible to me, because I had no interest in doctoring, in construction, in officework, in teaching, or any of the normal jobs. That I would fail school, end up on the streets somwhere, no direction at all, just desolation at its finest.

    Really, I was missing two things:

    A home for my mind.

    A purpose for my soul.

    And home, well where was home? Home was non-existent. I mean physically home was where I slept, of course, but my mind was always in a foreign land, amongst foreign people and... It very much still is, the only difference from then to now is that it has a home to return to.

    Finding home was hard, though I knew where to look... I knew that home to me, was certainly somewhere on a computer. My logic dictated, if I had spent a long time on one for, perhaps, too much of my young life, it had to have meant something. And it did, it meant that anything computer and media was my home.

    Things like what videogames I played, what music I listened to, what films I watched, what text I read. These were home. I was happy and learning while expriencing these things, a lot more than socialising or outdoor activities... This is of course, why I still play videogames.

    Yet, now that I did have my home. What else was I missing? Ah! That's right purpose. Humans love purpose, and without it, they go crazy. To me, in everyday of my life, this elusive thing was defined as a job, be it doctor, or policeman, or what-have-you. That is far too small a view for what purpose can be.

    Is an unemployed person purposeless? No. That implies retired people, as they retire, become purposeless. Unemployed folk can have many purposes, it all depends on what they are doing, and what they, as an individual, feel about what they are doing.

    Is being purposeless equal to being worthless? No. Just because you have no clear purpose in life, that is not enough to render a person worthless, worth is more than purpose, it is what a person, not their purpose, can bring, actively or passively, to the world.

    I thought so hard about what my purpose is. I have all the experience of the games, books, films, and whatnot inside me, what kind of job uses any of these, these ideas of media and artistry? I thunk, and I thunk, till I found an answer...

    My purpose, whether you agree or not, is to create things, and what things in particular? I reckon anything writing related. There is a saying that, a writer is a writer because he cannot help but write. I relate to that wholesale, not a day goes by in my life at this point, where I can stop myself from writing anything. Whether it be a poem, a small snippet of whatever, a one-shot, etcetera, etcetera.

    And I will say this and do not get me wrong, prose and poetry is not where my interest in creation ends, I wish to make games, draw and paint art, critique and direct films, write and act in plays (not movies, I dislike movie acting), just overall... CREATE.

    Yet through all the ambition... My focus and first love will always be, writing. Words, are my weapon, and then again, I was raised in the language of Shakespeare and Milton, so I better do them proud, lest I put my proficiency to waste.

    And even if my skills in writing are genuinely awful, I could not care at all, I love writing. Without it, I am slain. With it, I am empowered. Writing is my love and all its levels, from the mechanical to the general wordsmithery, are all my favorite qualities of it...

    ...Writing saved my life.

    And,

    I have hope because I can write it; I shall write hope for as long as I am alive. - Z