Regardless if I am an embarrassed middle school kid in the gym shower or the proud hairy old man at the nudist beach, writing makes me feel naked. It is the only time I am truly vulnerable. Where you are not staring at my stoic face wondering what I’m thinking or who I am judging or what I am scheming. My written pieces are very much what is at the forefront of my mind or rather blunt honesty. I do not put a wall up between me and my written word, at least not on purpose, or if I do it is always with the intention to work through it. I admit that in the hardest times of my life I have avoided writing because I am trying to hide myself from the truths that I don’t want my conicious mind to know. We all do it, lie to ourselves, it is a coping device. I don’t necessarily think its wrong until your ideas start to hurt other people. I try to be honest regardless. It is well known that honesty hurts just as much as a lie depending on the situation, but I find the truth to be inevitable. Coming to terms with the inevitable makes me feel bare. Cold and shivering without protection from the elements. When the truth is profound I feel like man being one with nature, feeling like he is part of something bigger than him. The pieces I love the most are the ones that at first make me bashful. I feel like I am sharing something worth saving. Similar to the idea of purity. These are some of the many reasons I write.