Horses run, flowers bloom, people write, and I keep writing because I want to be myself

Horses run. Flowers bloom. People write.
Because I want to be myself.

Why do I write like this, to this extent?
Late at night, when only the room's light survives and the sounds of the world finally fade away. On the desk, there is a cold drink, the fatigue of work lingering on my fingertips, and the clutter of a heart that hasn't been sorted out yet. I've even turned my phone face down.

I don't write to be correct. Not to become stronger, nor to be praised. Of course, I would be happy if such a moment came. But that moment is like a top-tier wine shining inside a glass case.
Everyone envies it, talks about it, and shrinks back just looking at the price tag. It is a flower on a high peak that only a handful of people can actually taste. For me, it is something I can only gaze at forever.

Then, why do I write?

I think I am afraid of touching the world as I am. If I walk through the world without putting anything into words, I am immediately worn down by the voices of others. The correct answers of the workplace, the justice of society, the ideals of efficiency, the proof of love. These are techniques for living in society, and I do them well enough. But if I swallow those 'correct' things whole, I can't breathe. Somewhere it hurts, somewhere it aches, and that is what I fear most.

For me, writing is one way to convey my likes to the world. No, that's too grand. It's more like, 'my feelings of liking things aren't stupid.' Because I know. I know that someone like me cannot change anyone's world.

But I think. Even if I can't change the world, I want to at least leave my thoughts at its edge. I can't save anyone's life. I am not a doctor, a politician, or a wizard. It can be ego, or self-satisfaction. I write because I want to write.

I want to be evaluated, I want to be read, I want to be told it struck a chord, I want to be nodded at in understanding, I want to be chosen, I want to go viral, I want 'likes,' I want comments, I want to be told my writing is liked, I want my name to be remembered, I want awards, I want results, I want to make it my job, I want to make a living as a writer.

Desire knows no bounds. No matter how much praise you pour into desire, the day will never come when it is completely satisfied. Because what I want is not numbers, but proof.

I am here. My world has meaning. My pain is not in vain. It is not a mistake for me to be me. I want proof of that. That is why I write.

Even if horses run and flowers scatter, I write.
Just one line is enough. I am here, it says. I will leave behind one line.