I write because I love to do it.
To vent, to shout, to toss of some restless energy that is within me, demanding that somehow, somewhere, I can pour it off somehow. And that, in the big, hollow all-sucking black hole that is the cyber space, it might sink or float, whatever the case maybe.
Yes, of course I do want it to float, because sometimes the things that I write about matter a lot, life or death issues, but the therapeutic effect of the writing to me is part of why I write. And even when it sinks into the very void of the black hole, I, at least have unburdened myself. At least a little bit.
And, with time, I can also learn to do much more than write. Because writing demands of us a bit more. Having a temper and burning anger to write also demands that you pose answers as well as the questions, presenting a point of view, radical or conservative, but some answers to the questions that I ask of others and the wild, wide world that I live in. Because, I am a human being. More or less, I am that.
I also write to keep my hand in the morass and pie that is our world. Sometimes we forget, we all live in a cocoon. And, in the pursuit of life and livelihood, we miss the wider world out there. So, I look things up, and get amazed, or happy, or angered and cold. But, I break out of the cocoon of my existence, and open my eyes to the wide world around me.
That in itself is a great incentive. To break through the walls of the tunnel that I have all around me, the necessities, the urgent, breaking bad things. And also the need to rest and be confortable, the ability to get past my 'confort zone' to a place of unreliable, swinging winds. That, that's also why I write.
And, to deny myself of this positive pleasure on the excuse of being too busy, or too sick, or too old, or too bushed....., that is an excuse that I have leaned upon too much.
The reed is broken. It stabbed me in the hand, and the wound is weeping for now.
But, that is nothing for me to cry home about. That wound will heal. And, more than just healing, the scar will be a reminder of the many things that complacency can drag us down into.
As my people, queer Africans and queer Ugandans say,