“Why do I write” is a question I have never pondered. Could it be to construct a semblance of reality that reflects where in life I would rather be? And when I’m done I am overwhelmed, constantly asking myself: “why am I where I am?” I write because it emboldens me to be all I can be, despite the fact a fraction of the people I meet will discredit me. I write because when I look out to the night, what my eyes deem as beautiful tingles my vibratory frequencies, then they campaign to trigger my thoughts, which when awoke, harasses me. So in order to regain my piece of mind I’ll write to set them free. There are times I write because I am persuaded I have a gift, so I’ll confine myself to my cell and attempt to discover if it exists, not forgetting to mention my ego hates to disappoint, so it pushes me exasperatingly just to prove a point. Writing enables me to extract the unimaginable by linking my thoughts to obtuse verbs to assist my view, and stretch my voice and ink to share with you. I write for those hearts that are so cold, wherein my words pierce and sooth their soul. I write to provoke the creativity lodged deep within, and when she whispers I have something to send, her tone helps to facilitate the movement of my pen. I write because I don’t like the environment that a bygone has created for me. It helps to cure my anxiety, since the probability exists that my crimes will be recounted when my name is mentioned in the swells of society. Who in their ignorance are unable to see that they’re one bad day from being me? I write because when my peers write in class it seems as if they have a degree in word anomaly, and it feels good that they’re the ones influencing me. I write because an undeniable little lady will have a fit, who for some reason can’t comprehend the meaning of quit. She incessantly reminds me that if I want to be an extended freelant in her life, by calmly stressing I’m required to write. And since I don’t have the courage to tell her no, I write for the enjoyment of watching her glow.