Why Write?

Sometimes I wonder, if were on a desert island, alone in some ocean, would I continue to write, find some way to write?

There would be no one to read what I wrote, no one to listen to me read aloud what I had put down, for me to ask their opinion.

Would I simply let my thoughts be thought and so be released into the air or into the sky, done, empty, their thought-molecules stretched apart and gone?

Out there on some island, alone with the scrub and beetles and maybe a tree, would I scratch words into the sand, then brush the words away and continue? Scratch words and signs into rocks, stones? Crush up those beetles to make ink and write with a stick dipped into the ink to write on the rags of my own clothes, taking care with each word?

Why write? For fame, for an audience, for money?

I cannot imagine sitting on that island waiting for a boat to rescue me and then asking those on board to pay me before I would say  anything or write anything.

Do poets do that? Would a musician, alone on that island, not hit rocks with a stick and hum to remind herself that she is alive? Would the painter not use that beetle-ink to paint on rocks, on the tree, on leaves, on his own skin?

When we were children, did we wait for our parents or grandparents to give us money before we experimented with colors, danced foolishly, sang loudly out of key, shouted for joy, created?

When we lived in caves, did we ask for shells or beads or stones to be paid us before we told stories at the fire or painted on the walls of those caves?

Why write?

The question is not even worth asking.

Money is good.

Writing writing writing writing writing is better.

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