Why do I write?

Random words drifting into my head like I'm supposed to be some kind of writer. Sentence fragments always forming, new ideas always forming. Wouldn't it be interesting if? There's never been a this that did that! Oh man, I should write a piece about a thing that reacts in an entirely unexpected manner to an otherwise normal daily occurence, and in the process has a series of mind expanding discoveries that come altogether into an allegorious lesson for the reader.

I don't want to write, I don't like to write. Mostly because I don't know what to write. All the ideas, all the sentence fragments that come to me all day long fail to ever be even partially realized.

But mostly I know I'm just chicken, just making excuses. I know it, I've known it for a while. Nothing would be more embarassing than writing and failing. Nothing would be more embarassing than writing something dull. And you can't fail if you don't try.

What if I'm not funny anymore? What if I'm not poignant anymore? What if I am not the artful word imp I'm told I was. Everyone jinxing everything. That's right, I did write that great piece when I was 13! Blah.