Perhaps because I’m lonely, and writing itself is another form of loneliness?
Perhaps because words are innately selfish, and they want to be exposed although I don’t intend to?
Perhaps because I could easily edit what the mouth couldn’t?
Perhaps because writing is an open letter to a certain someone? A real and imaginary reader?
Perhaps the heart, the mind couldn’t contain all the words inside, they need an outlet?
Perhaps because words should be taken as they are, should not be taken as they are?
Perhaps because words are deceitful, just like us?
Perhaps because words are sincere, honest with their pretense and deceit.