Why I write

Writing is a way of making myself real to myself.

Before I write something, it lives in a kind of fog. There's a feeling, a direction, but no shape. The act of writing forces that fog to condense into words — much like The cloud and the basin.

And words are permanent in a way that thoughts aren't. A thought can dissolve. A word sits there on the page, and I can't pretend I didn't think it.

That terrifies me sometimes. But it's also the only way I learn what I actually believe. This connects to Writing is a search procedure, the idea that writing is not output but exploration.

Some reasons evolve. Some are artifacts of when I was someone else. This note is just a snapshot, much like how Notes on attention shapes what we become.