I write therefore I am. I exist completely when transferring the most profound or mundane bits of my perception from concept to concrete. When I write life begins to make sense, because I am able to make sense of life through the trickling of thought from brain to forearm, from forearm to paper.
The slow creeping slopes of letters in ink, the hurried scribbles of a mad-woman, or the gentle pecking of keyboard, no matter what form writing takes, the very action of it is inclined to incubating every dormant hope and erecting new dreams from old memories. I write to give a name to the things felt at the height of empathy.
Though language may be our most lofty barrier, words weave the fabric of connection. Words are the gateway to extraordinary vision. To someday articulate mine -- This is why I write.