I must first apologize. The following entry will be pensive and may verge on self-important; please realize that it is not intended as an ego-booster.

I am addicted to creation.

Humans are meant to record evidence of their existence. We are remembered by what we leave behind. The only way for anyone to get inside our brains after we are dead is for them to read what we have written, to study what we have drawn, to listen to the music we have made.

There is rarely joy in creation. To make something out of nothing causes not euphoria, but dissatisfaction and embarrassment. We are our own worst critics; the things we make are for others because we cannot truly enjoy them ourselves. There is always some glaring flaw that only we can see, some infinitesimal detail that reveals too much or too little. And yet, we are somehow proud of the imperfect works for which our hands are responsible.

In this same vein runs the idea that we have difficulty creating for those who are close to us. Gertrude Stein once quipped, "I write for myself and strangers." (There is more to that quotation, but I choose to end it there.) To expose ourselves to our loved ones is harsh, if not shameful.

And so, I have but this reiteration to give you: One should always be creating something. Always write or draw or whistle. Make music, paintings, anything that takes your thoughts and turns them into something tangible. Even if you’re only scribbling, perhaps merely stringing words together, those scribbles and rambles are your psyche. Put yourself on paper, for when you die, that is all that is left of you. Create. Make yourself permanent. Tell us what you know.