Do what you want, they say. How can I know what I want if I was always told what is “right” to want? I've always wanted to do art. I've always felt an immense need to create. But every time I'd venture into the process of creation, I'd get stuck in a stifling paralysis of feeling the urgent need for whatever it was I wanted to create to be “good”. Is it going to be good enough for people to consume? Is it going to communicate what I intend for it to communicate? Is it going to be “worth” the time spent? Is it going to be representative of my core values and principles? And always, always, the looming question, the impending doom, is it going to have “value”? What is art worth? Is there a cost, ever, to the bits of one's soul, to the fragments of one's fleeting feelings? How to determine the value of the soul's need to create? And the pragmatic voice in my head, would always say, you are overthinking this. Just do it! If you want to, do it! Who cares of the value, of the worth? Just do it now, and think of what to do with it later! And I so wish I could just do it. Just get over the insignificant anxieties of writers block, just hush the nagging fear of rejection, and do it. And many a time, I did. Despite the pain, despite the fear, I'd sit, and I'd brood, and I'd create. Days would pass, and I would read what I had produced earlier. And sometimes it would read so painfully convoluted. And often times it would read contrived. And many times, I could not tell. But somehow, if years passed, I would look at my old writing, and think, I hear you. I understand, even though I don't remember. I can see, and feel, as if someone else is letting me into their own private chamber of suffering. And this is where I stand. I write because I have to. I don't know what my writing is for. I don't know why I want to write as if my life depended on it. I don't know and I don't want to care if my writing is “good enough”. I am a writer and that is it.