It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.
This author captures it so perfectly... sometimes what I say might not seem so important at the moment. But I have a terribly bad memory. I go back and read pieces I wrote a year, two years, ten years ago, and I wonder if I really even wrote them, or if those things happened to me.
If I didn't write them down, I might not recall them at all. So I write.