Why I Say I Write for Myself
If writing is a disease, then its symptom is the flow of ideas—and I am deeply affected by them.
When I say I write for myself, I don’t mean it selfishly or dismissively. I mean it quite literally, as a form of mental survival.
Imagine the mind as a vessel with a limited capacity. For me, let’s say that capacity is a hundred ideas. Beyond that, anything extra becomes a burden—an overload of thoughts pressing for attention, each begging to be explored, expressed, or set free. And they don’t wait patiently. They flood in, uninvited and persistent.
So, what happens when the ideas keep coming and there’s no more room? Pressure builds. The mind tightens. Focus weakens. I’ve come to understand that the only way to cope with this constant influx is to release some of what I already carry. Writing becomes the outlet—a safe, reliable escape valve.
Every time I write, I’m not just communicating, I’m emptying. I’m creating space in my mind for the next idea, the next insight, and the next creative impulse. In that way, writing is my therapy. It calms me. It organises the chaos. It helps me breathe.
And though people find value in my writings, and for that I’m deeply grateful, I must confess: even if no one ever read a word, I would still write. Because if I were to keep every thought, concept, reflection, and revelation bottled up inside, I might eventually break under the pressure. Writing saves me from that. It preserves my peace.
So yes, I write for others. I write to bless, to inspire, and to provoke thought. But before all that, I write to protect my mind. Writing is my release, my sanity, my medicine. That’s why I say, with all sincerity and no apology—I write for myself first.
