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Why do we write? Why do we write journals, diaries or blogs?

I was trying to figure out today why I am writing. Why do we write memoirs, diaries, or journals? Maybe for the same reason we carve our names into wood and sign guest books at exhibitions; to convince the world that we existed at some point, to the extent that it is possible to exist as a human being. “I was here, and these are the things that happened to me, I swear, I lived through this. Can you believe it? I myself hardly can sometimes.” But perhaps what baffles me the most is that we write down even the memories that we desperately try to forget. Why do we do that? Maybe we write to remind not just the rest of the world, but also ourselves that we existed, we really really suffered, and other times were happy, and that we still do exist, as we are writing. Maybe there is something inherently good about existence, because no matter how bad things are, everything can change in a day, and it is up to us to make it happen as long as we are alive. Just lifting up a pen can remind us of precisely that: that we are living right now, and that this is it, this is the moment, this is all we have.

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