I write to stay alive. Surely, this is an exaggeration—for I can live without writing. Or can I? Perhaps I will survive like a cockroach or Kafka’s gigantic insect, or even like a stodgy caterpillar about to turn into a butterfly. But it won’t be the same. Writing gives me meaning and helps me weather the day.
I also write to find myself. Where did I wander off in the past? Was that (really) me? Where am I going in the future? What exactly is the future? When I am writing poetry, is that the same person who is asking these questions?
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