why i write – eng 101

There is a strange sensation that comes with existing in the in-between. It is not lonely nor relentless, just quiet. Like a state of suspension, hovering between lives, waiting for something to push you one way or the other. It is the feeling of standing in a crowded room and realizing you do not belong to any of it. Airports embody this sensation. They are spaces built for waiting. The long hallways and uncomfortable chairs seem to stretch on forever as flickering screens with numbers which never seem to change quickly enough. Everyone is either leaving or arriving, but no one stays. Moving through these transient spaces changes you. You do not belong in any of these places, but somehow, the constant movement makes you see things differently. It is as if you are part of something bigger, something you cannot fully understand. 

The first time I truly felt it was during my first flight. I was leaving Nepal for the United States, and everything felt so unreal, like I was watching myself from a distance. When I was growing up, my home was located near the only airport in the country. I used to lie in the park, near the airplane, arms stretched out, like I could reach them. Planes flew so low and loud, they felt close enough to touch, drowning out everything else.

I would watch those planes vanish into the sky, wondering where they were going, who was on board, if anyone up there ever looked down and saw me—just a tiny speck, staring up at something too big to understand. It was the first time I felt small. That feeling of smallness stayed with me, even as I grew older. Watching those planes, I began to romanticize the idea of leaving. The world seemed full of possibilities and it made leaving feel lovable. But no one tells you that watching something from below and being inside it are two completely different experiences. One day, I was not lying in the grass anymore. I was in a stiff airplane seat, staring out the window as the city I called home got smaller and smaller until it disappeared. The park was down there somewhere, but it did not matter now. The map said 25 hours to my destination—a time so broad it did not feel real. 

From the plane, the sky looked different. Emptier than I expected. Just rows of seats and the quiet hum of people trying to sleep. I used to think being up there would feel like freedom, but mostly, it felt like waiting. That is the thing about leaving. You spend your whole life watching planes and dreaming about what is on the other side. Then, one day, you are in one, and you realize the sky is just the sky, no matter where you are. Some colors are prettier than others, sure, but after a while, everything starts to look gray. 

This realization—that leaving is not as glamorous as it seems—is what pushed me to write this.

It’s easy to think writing is about expression, something big or important. But it’s not. It’s selfish, desperate—like trying to be noticed in a world that doesn’t care, wanting to be seen, even for just a second. But then, somewhere in that mess, you start searching for meaning. You start looking for proof. You sit there, staring at a blank screen, waiting for something to emerge from within. You think, maybe if you stay still enough, the right words will eventually show up—perfect, ready to pour out. But they never do. Slowly, you wonder if it was never meant for you.

You know the type—the ones who write it again and again until it’s sterile, smooth, and dead. But if it has to be bled out of you like that, what’s the point? There is something ugly about forcing it. Why stitch together something lifeless and call it worth saying? The world’s already full of enough dead things. Enough people mistake effort for necessity, why do it out of choice? 

I write because I want my art to come alive —not just for me, but for everyone who has ever felt like they did not belong, for everyone who has ever been overlooked, ignored, or told they did not have what it takes. I write for those moments when I feel disconnected, like I am just a bystander watching life happen to everyone else. Writing is the one thing that brings me back to myself, that reminds me I am alive, even if it is only for a moment. It lets me reconnect to who I am, who I was, and who I want to be. 

Writing became my way of holding onto the moments that matter: the skies, the planes, the park. It is how I make sense of the heaviness, the waiting, the gray. These are the very fabric of why I write. It allows me to give voice to the connections that never materialized, the conversations that never took place, and the paths that diverged too soon. 

My relationship with writing began long before I ever set foot on a plane. I have been writing for as long as I can remember—little poems scribbled on the back pages of my school notebook, secret confessions folded into paper planes, hidden journals filled with words no one else has ever read. When I was nine, sitting in a fourth-grade classroom, a substitute teacher told us to write a poem. I wrote seven and read them aloud. I still remember the way she looked at me when I read them. Her smile was not just polite—it was surprising, like she had stumbled onto something she was not expecting. I did not know what I had done to deserve that reaction, but I knew I wanted to keep it. For a long time, though, I was terrified of reading my own words out loud. Once they left my mouth, I thought they would lose their meaning. They would sound dumber than they did in my head. But the first time I did it, something unexpected happened. Instead of fear, there was a moment of connection. Friends listened. They agreed. The words felt vulnerable; they resonated. I do not know why that moment sticks with me, but it does. 

That moment taught me: writing is about connection, not just expression. I write to mark time, to leave a part of myself behind so I can find it later. It’s how I remember what it feels like when the world forgets to ask how I am. I write because I have always been fascinated by strangers—not in a sentimental way, but in how they make life feel alive. Watching someone in a café, listening to half a conversation, or seeing them eat ice cream, run in the rain, fix their hair, or bite their nails—these little moments make up most of life. And that is why I write. I used to think I was just romanticizing life, that it was all momentarily, something that happened to fill space. But as I walked away from places I never thought I would leave, I realized it is more than that. It is in these tiny, almost forgettable details that we find ourselves. And suddenly, I remembered the sound of my footsteps leaving places I loved so much. 

Leaving does not feel like leaving when it happens. You tell yourself you will come back, that everything will stay the same. But it will not. Because the moment you step onto that plane, something shifts. You become the person who left. And no matter how many times you return, a part of you stays somewhere else. You start measuring time in distances. In arrivals and departures. In the voices you can’t hear anymore, in the weight of words you never said-in this way, familiar streets start to feel like places you are only passing through. The wind against your face on a motorbike on dusty roads is replaced by snowy late-night drives in a windy car seat. The way home used to feel like a place you could sink into, like a bed still warm from sleep—now it is replaced by the feeling that you are always just visiting.

This is why I write. Writing is a way to hold on—to press pause on time, to make something stay when everything else is slipping away. Because no matter how far I go, a part of me will always be caught in the echo of what I left behind. I do not trust memory. It distorts the past, turns the worst nights into something poetic, something joyful. I don't trust memory. It adjusts and turns, turning the worst nights into something poetic, something happy. But the page doesn't lie. It captures the ugly, the mundane, and everything else. Writing is proof that I was here, that I thought, that I felt, even if it was stupid, even if it did not matter. 

I write because everything disappears eventually. The unimportant things that make up a life but do not have a place in conversation. The second you say something out loud; it does not belong to you anymore. It gets picked apart, misheard, changed into something you did not mean. But the writing itself stays the same. I can write something down and never show anyone, and it still means something, still exists in a way that spoken words never do. 

In the end, I write because I do not always know what I think until I see it staring back at me. Anger feels like anger until I break it apart and realize it is grief. Happiness feels like happiness until I sit with it long enough to see the disappointment. Writing forces honesty—it is a mirror, and sometimes I hate the reflection, but at least it is honest. I write because I must. Because silence does not suit me. Because my mind is too loud, and words are the only way to quiet it. Writing lets me hold onto what was never meant to stay, to give life to what could have been. I write because, without it, I would not know who I am.