Making text and prose for the sake of having the letters put out there. Creating words so that you have said something, for otherwise the silence would have been too great, too overwhelming, perhaps, and the meaning of those words matters as much as the font you use or the surroundings that you work in.
Writing gives comfort. Someone once told me that “writing crystallizes thoughts and makes them more clear to you”. That may be true, so very true, but the goal, the very reason why you write is still the same as the reason that many others work, eat, travel, talk and do anything at all: you want to feel real, you want to feel that you exist, and those words are there, in front of you, and you but them there, so you must be.
And if there is any chance of making those words seem to have some meaning, some purpose, than you, the writer, should be the one that also has one. For how else could there be meaning in those words if you had not given it? And how could you give meaning to something if you yourself didn’t have any?
So all this writing for the sake of writing is the purpose of itself, it’s the self-fulfilling prophecy of manifestation of the reason of being. And even though it’s kind of dirty, creating something and having that loop back to yourself, justifying the reason of your own existence, it is the perfect pastime in that. For if your writing is even the least bit entertaining, thought provoking or plainly distracting, there may be others willing to read it. Giving a little bit of their precious (for limited) time to your words, in exchange for some sense of humor, some philosophical dissertation or some way into another realm of fantasy, and in that process losing the need to define their own meaning, having just enough layers of abstraction between their sense of purpose and the final provider of that purpose, so that life does not feel as if you are the only one that can define it.
That is indeed not a bad thing, even though it might seem to be, for some. Throughout the ages (at least, that’s what I’ve been told), people have always distracted themselves from this fact, so that they could enjoy the things that are on the first layer of abstraction: the direct sensory input, the first step away from your own thoughts. If they wouldn’t, would there be any target, any movement, any life at all? If the purpose of life, the meaning of the writing and reflection or entertaining is only and only defined in itself, is it not the best thing we can do to create those shiny, distracting loops of entertainment so that we can live up to what we create? Isn’t, then, imagination the greatest good in this world?
So, write, for the sake of writing, if that is what you feel like doing, and bring that means of creation to the world. Even though the purpose may feel like a loop to itself, that is the exact thing that makes this universe spin.