I Mattered

This thing of writing is madness. To think the world needs one more clamoring voice, much less cares about its motive, is lunacy. Why, then, must I write?  What force compels expression? In base manner it comes forth as narcissistic Facebook posts or mundane quips. Higher forms we term 'literature.' In between is every manner of utilitarian utterance and philosophic postulating. And somewhere in the rainforest of words I wield my own like an African panga that cuts a pathway through strangling undergrowth. In final analysis writing is my heart's desperate attempt to shout, "I was here. I mattered. At least for a little while."