Why must I continue to write?

So many days have passed since I had last posted any article on my blog. Not that I have lost interest in sharing my experiences online, but the exigencies of both life and work bound me to activities deemed necessary then. People assumed that I had gone to exile with no further possibility of donning my writer’s mantle in near future. But then there is nothing more painful and tantalizing than the consciousness of faculties remaining unexercised or withering of inherent abilities under the pressure of manual activities or tasks classified as domesticated.

I cannot ignore my will to write. It is the second best thing that I love after reading. No other hobby or activity has given me similar pleasure or an identity as this. My other hobbies, though excite me to an extent of being satisfied, had not been able to pull me out of that sense of non-identity that I continuously suffered from, nor instilled me with that feeling of self-fulfillment that I constantly craved for.

I read and write, and these are what I am good at. I do not think that I would ever be good at anything else. So under the mask of this blog, I attempt to explore the satisfactions of my asserted self that flow from the emotions that I had forced to contain within me and shared with none.