On Clarity

To ask a banal question - why do we write? But this query is not banal, it may be as important to one who writes as the question of the meaning of Being is to a human-being according to Heidegger, for it is at the heart of what we do - on this blog for example. It IS what we do. So how can we not ask this question?
We've been studying Heidegger on the course lately, and, inevitably, the question of authenticity has been on my mind the whole time. It has, in fact, preoccupied me for the past few years (as is the case with my fellow students, I feel), as well the the question of writing. More than a question, an obsession. I write even when I don't know why I write anymore. It started out with an attempt to make sense of and record philosophical ideas and assumptions, and slowly worked its way to its current state, in which I find myself recording every minute feeling that I observe, criticising every book, film and album that comes my way, keeping a diary - and for what? I still don't know. The only thing I can say is that I can't stop; I have to keep writing. Perhaps it's reached an unhealthy degree. It certainly has been getting in the way of course work. For a while I thought that I (and secretly everyone) write in the hope of becoming a good writer in the eyes of others. But what does it mean to be a good writer? Let's not go into that now. I know now that this is not the case. I don't even find myself dedicating much time to writing stories or prose anymore. I'm concerned with writing on a much more personal level.

So is it authenticity that I look for in writing? Is writing a means to authenticity? And assuming it is, how can it lead me to authenticity? Can it mislead me? Can it damage? A fork may be a tool, a means to eating, but I can also stab myself in the eye with it. My writing, it would seem upon superficial inspection, has progressed on a straight line from an inability to express my sentiments with precision, difficulty in putting my finger on precisely what it was that I felt, what it was that I liked or disliked about things, what made me feel uncomfortable for no apparent reason, to a sense of eloquence and articulation. A sense of clarity. But what does this word mean? Clarity - to clear, to remove an obstacle, a veil, an illusion. The Hebrew word used to describe clarity of speech or writing is 'Tzakh', which also means purity, and is used to describe the morning air, particularly after a thick and rainy night, a smouldering night. An air that's been relieved of its weight, an air that's breathed effortlessly. Am I to understand that the practice of writing, of self-exploration through writing, is analogous to the clearing of the air, the receding rain? But has writing become my torch? Am I now able to point the way to that which I wish to see, or more, to that which I wish to feel? What is IT? IT seems to deflect illumination, it's always vague, like a face in a dream. IT seems centrifugal - I always revolve around IT, circling IT, never quite touching IT. Never speaking IT. IT won't allow itself to be spoken. Perhaps a notion of self, or even authenticity, demands a measure of unknowing?
What is it I think I'm articulating ,anyway? Am I ever nearer the end? Is articulation ever anything more than the elaboration of language? The elaboration of an illusion? Perhaps attempts at direct articulation are bound to fail; a ship that never leaves the dock. And I wonder, can literature and poetry not communicate to us that which we strive to understand, and does it not succeed precisely because of its indirectness?