I write because sometimes it’s just too complicated to tell anything to anyone. I write because, in my darkest days, I do not even feel like seeing anyone–let alone talking to them. I write because I think people won’t understand. I write because I don’t think I can fully trust anyone. I write because I think people won’t be so nice or approving. I write because I think people would try too hard to be nice and approving.

I write because, in my teenage years, I learned that my knuckles would hurt if I punch the wall. That instead of getting sympathy, my parents would simply scold me for breaking things or throwing my stuff away. That to swear and curse from the top of my lungs, I needed to go to a jungle or a mountain so nobody would hear me, but I couldn’t travel that far. That cutting myself sounded like an intriguing idea to play with, but I could never get myself to do it. I write because, at the time, I didn’t have whatever it takes to run away–both mentally and physically.

There were times in my early 20s when I envied my friends who could run away to other cities/countries, drowned themselves in sexual adventures, went to wild parties and got wasted, tried out drugs of a different kind, or showed everyone the scars they inflicted on themselves in an attempt to ‘feel’ again. There were times when I looked at them and wished I could do that, too.

But I didn’t.
Instead, I wrote.


I write because the pages are simply being there. They are not talking back, they are not giving any advice, they are not offering words of comfort, they are not judging. They are simply being there in their blankness, waiting for my pen to vomit the chaos of my thoughts and feelings. They never flinched no matter how dark, mean, or depressing those thoughts and feelings turned out to be. Sometimes, my handwriting is tiny and neat and round, other times thin and messy and sharp, other times huge and bold and wet with tears. But the pages are still there–even when they get damp, torn, crumpled, thinned, or worn out; they stay.

Screen shot 2015-04-08 at 7.27.56 PM


I write because, at the time, it was the only thing I can do. I write because it was the cheapest and safest way to express myself: my sadness, my anger, my hatred, as well as my secret wishes, my dreams… my love. I write because when things get hard, writing gives me an outlet to empty my mind (and my heart) for a while. I write because only by doing so, I can transfer the revolving and revolting thoughts in my mind into the pages of my journal, name it, recognize it, pinpoint it, then lock it in a drawer and give it a safe ‘distance’. I write because I can reread those words a few hours later, nine days later, nine weeks later, nine months later, or nine years later, and feel different each time; noticing how much I have grown and how much I have learned. I write because that’s the one thing I know to see the many sides of me and finally understand who I really am–and who I really want to be (even when nobody is looking).


Different people in all walks of life choose different outlets to cope with different kinds of things. It just happens that I choose writing. And I’m thankful for writing, too, has chosen me.


39 Responses

  1. You said it best.. “…waiting for my pen to vomit the chaos of my thoughts and feelings.”

    I guess, this is the sole reason why most people started to write. Deep down, unknowingly, they–including me–felt at peace inside those blank pages.

  2. Bouncing back from blog sulking, it’s refreshing to bump on your post. Honest. Motivating. Inspiring.

    Then, I pause and ponder, “WHY I WRITE?”
    Why did I stopped?

    The longer I linger in dilly-dallying, the shorter my chance to keep the words rolling.

    It’s about time! 🙂


  3. Reblogged this on Curly Bookworm and commented:
    Bouncing back from blog sulking, it’s refreshing to bump on your post. Honest. Motivating. Inspiring.

    Then, I pause and ponder, “WHY I WRITE?”
    Why did I stopped?

    The longer I linger in dilly-dallying, the shorter my chance to keep the words rolling.

    It’s about time! 🙂

  4. i really want to reblog this, because i feel so related to the words. but i hold my finger, considering maybe this post is too personal for you to be reblog. 🙂

  5. Nah, setuju banget nih :’ aku pun nulis karena memang ada banyak keluhan yang mungkin aku belum cukup berani buat ngutarain keluhan langsung didepan banyak orang. Ada banyaaak banget alasan kenapa aku nulis, dan tulisan Mbaknya ini udah menjadi jawabannya :3

  6. i stopped writing because i felt all that needs to be said have been said enough. i stopped writing because my thoughts and feelings today are no different than what it used to be yesterday and i was certain it will still be the same tomorrow. i stopped writing because the questions i used to express have already been answered. and somehow the journey has ended.

    i truly adore writers.
    they sustain immortality in their speech. and enthusiasm.
    in their words.

    while the rest of us will die in oblivion.

    so be inspirational. good deeds will travel far into decades.
    especially the kindest speech.

  7. I just found this weblog and all I can say is WOW. Your writing is just stunningly beautiful and inspiring. Can’t have enough of them. Keep going ma’am. 🙂


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Legs and Apples
Do it because it’s fun. Because it brings you joy; because it’s meaningful to you. Do it because it gives you simple tiny pleasures. Do it because it makes you smile.
The view from De Klok
I took another digital detox this weekend—I limited myself to a 5-minute screen time on Saturday and Sunday to quickly check my business account. I closed my social media account for the rest of the days.
Hanny illustrator
I am an Indonesian writer/artist/illustrator and stationery web shop owner (Cafe Analog) based in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. I love facilitating writing/creative workshops and retreats, especially when they are tied to self-exploration and self-expression. In Indonesian, 'beradadisini' means being here. So, here I am, documenting life—one word at a time.