In continuation to what I was talking about last week, one thing worth noting is that when I started writing ten years ago (yes, it’s been that long), writing felt like a need. I needed to start writing and create art and explore and cultivate the artistic and creative aspects of my psyche.

Now, as a 30-year-old guy with a lot more strings on me, I want to write. I want to keep writing.

I certainly no longer feel that insane urge I used to that if I don’t write, I will either go insane and explode or just wither away and die.

I have a life now—or at least some semblance of one—that I have built with my own choices and in my own way. I want to keep living it.

At 20, there were no strings. I could jump and fly and not care about what happened beneath my lofty imaginings. The years past have grounded me, and I have somehow come to appreciate the world around me. Not fully, perhaps, but by inches, at least.

I want to write. I still believe it is a big part of who I am—and more importantly of who I could be. But it is certainly not all I am. Not anymore.

Maybe I’m not going to be The Writer Guy. Maybe I’ll just be a guy who writes.

Let’s see how things go.