Why I write

I was chopping some carrots for tea tonight with a small red paring knife and I suddenly thought to myself; where did this knife come from? I had absolutely no idea whether I had bought it or been given it by someone, and when this might have happened. The same thing has started to happen with clothes. I get a t-shirt out and I think, I can't remember where I got this or when. I used to know exactly where everything in my house came from. Who had bought it for me or where I bought it, what I was thinking that day and who was with me, even sensations felt whilst using/wearing that item. Like my very first pair of drainpipe jeans I was wearing when I had my first kiss on that draughty staircase. But now things are starting to slip. I don't have perfect recall. There's just too many things to keep track of now that I'm sharing a house and a lot of headspace with three other people. And because my life is so full, I can't possibly remember everything all the time. I have to make lists just to get through the week.

And that brings me to writing. The other day I was wondering why I write, why I spend such a lot of time either doing it or thinking about doing it. And I think it is because everything is so fragile and precious and passes so quickly and I really want for time to stand still sometimes, which I know it can't, and so I try to get it down, capture it before it is gone forever. But I am quite bad at doing this. There are so many things; ideas, quotations, overheard remarks, observations, that never make it too the page because life just gets in the way. So that is why I write; for me. To help me remember/allow me to forget/place in order/accept there is no order to/ this life.