I make my writing. But I am not even clear about what I’m writing for. I guess I just write to seem important. And I am superficially conscious about it. I overthink, even the sounds it makes when I type. If it’s fast enough. Or if it’s too slow. Or just right. If people will judge me. If they think I’m stupid. When I sit here writing by myself without any measure or meaning. Without any reason or cause. I write just because I like to think of myself as a writer. Because I identify myself as a “someone” in the world filled with nobodies. I rebel against a sea of people doing nothing with their life’s while wholly contradicting my own progress. Entirely ignorant of the way that I have joined the unimportant and pretentious measure of my entirely human inferiority complex. My writing makes me.