For a while I have thought about writing, but never about who to write for, who to write to. The question did not have a answer I am satisfied with.
Who do you write for? Who do you paint for? Who do you create for? Who do you breath for? Who do you live for?
Writing for myself did not make sense, for I know what I am thinking, why write? The next logical answer is to write for the public .But who is the public? Are they strangers in my consciousness? Are they the humans I haven’t talked to in a while? Are they my friends? Are they people I want to impress or people I’m afraid of? Or are they the ones I love?
For there are far too many I can write to, too many I can write for, but far too few who matter in this moment.
I can write to my future, or I can write about my past. But future exist on the edge of thoughts and physics, and past in the mist of memories.
So who ?
At one moment i wanted to write for my children, but their existence i do not want to create just yet.
I’ll be bold, I’ll write to my dragon. You exist outside of space and time. I write to you, my friend.
Who are you, you might ask. We’ll discover together, I might say.