On being asked why I write

As a kid, I used to love to play hide & seek. Every time we got together, I used to convince my friends to play the game with me. In one of our rooms, there used to be a large cupboard with sliding brown doors. It had nothing in it except some pillows and blankets. At every turn in the game, I would always go and hide inside it. The same place, every single time. All of the kids knew about that, so it meant I never won. Once the countdown was done, some would come straight to me and seek me out first, making me the thief for the next game. Some would just go elsewhere to search for other kids, knowing that I would be there anyway. The thing was, no matter when they came, I would always be there in that frayed brown cupboard, my ears pressed up to its door with my breath muffled slightly, waiting.

Perhaps I just loved the wooden sound of approaching footsteps and the triumphant look on the face outside as the door slid open. Perhaps I was dim enough to think that they wouldn't notice the life-sized lump under the blankets, every single time. Perhaps I never cared for their little game, playing another game by myself, one with very different rules from the one everybody else was playing. Perhaps it just felt safe in there, even if only until reality came knocking soon enough in the guise of a smug kid. Perhaps playing the thief was more enjoyable than trying to hide from one. Perhaps it smelled wonderful in there. Perhaps I was only just desperate to be found.

I don't know. 
Nor do I ever want to.