I find it a beautiful labor, tempering one's very being into language. Pitch, rhythm, timbre, and texture get worked into letters, syllables, words, and intonations. Forged in an open-heart furnace, sentences are affixed to one another in between beats. Paragraphs mired in meaning emerge over the fray of unconstructed communication with a life all their own. Conducting themselves with an earnest vigor down the page, the reader is left with little doubt as to the intent: honesty.
At least, that's what I aim for. I have a hard time of it, as one might imagine. Such self-exposure is so wrapped up in fear and vulnerability, the likes of which implore one away from honest writing at all costs. Through some imprudent purpose of will, I've found courage enough to endeavor and manifest myself as much as I am able. It's sure to be a spectacle; welcome to a front row seat.
I suspect all this is some little jigsaw piece answer to the puzzle of why I listen and with what motives I empathize. By encouraging people to give a voice to themselves and letting that voice be heard, I get to witness something inspiring, something beautiful: the enunciation of the self. There's all sorts of poetry about it, if one has an appetite for such things.
Mine, it would seem, is insatiable.