Why?

Getting those first words in is the hard part, isn't it?

Well, it is for me. I haven't been the first one to say so, and I won't be the last.

Now, Why. Why do I write?

Simple. A lack of spirituality and a deep need for it.

As doomy and gloomy as it may look, the way I see it, after one stops paying the electricity bills to one's body, that's it. Nothingness after.

At the same time, I so wish I could think otherwise.

I find writing soothing.

My writing has almost always contained in it a degree of magic, Deus Ex Machina, mysticism...

In other words, my writing brings to the table the spirituality I lack.

Our world is breathtaking as it is (look at giraffes, if that's not a magical beast, I don't know what is), but my approach to spirituality leads me directly into a lack of purpose, which although bearable, is quite annoying.

But when I'm inside a story—whatever the vehicle for it, and whether I'm the one bringing it to life or just enjoying someone else's—everything makes sense.

That's the bad guy! That's the good guy! I don't know which one is the good guy or the bad guy! No one is good or bad! There's a God! I don't know if there's a God! There's definitely not a God!...

The list could go on forever. Still, it all makes sense, even when it doesn't.

And that's comforting.

So to answer the question in a few words, I write to keep trying to understand that which I'm pretty sure I can't.

And I'm having a hell of a time in the pursuit.

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Thank you for being here. Remember to feed that sparkle in your eyes.

Carlos Antón Moya