Why I Write

I always say that I’ve been writing before I could write.

As a young girl, I dictated stories to my mother so she could write them for me.

When an older but still young girl,

I hand-wrote in journals with my own stick figures as illustrations.

Now I type my stories,

even though canyons could be formed in the time it takes me to finish.

Throughout it all, my most frequent listener was myself.

From little girl to young woman, I have entertained myself with stories in my head.

They were my escape from a world that I didn’t understand. My very own form of expression to myself.

I live to tell my stories.

I am fire, and it my kindling.

I see a story in every fallen leaf, behind every closed door.

I look up at the sky and see words written in the stars.

My head is filled with stories, with a world of possibilities.

Even when the page is blank, my mind is full of life.

Most of all, writing is my exploration.

Of emotions too big to contain,

New worlds that beg an explorer,

Wonders that need to be shared,

A past that must be processed.

I have always written, always told stories.

It seems that I always will.

Because I can’t imagine a universe where my soul would ever be so silent.