There exists an unfathomable oblivion. A realm unbeknownst to the perception of man, which an understanding of has been the most sought after treasure to the human race. From this plane emerges a thing called thought. Thought which pinballs back, forth, and off all barriers of my mind, down through the mazy processes of this brain. Turning from speculation, to plot, to intention. Mental subwaying from synapse to synapse. Jumping into neuronic cabs, transmitting information through dendrite dispatch in a billion codes. Useful for as many tasks, but in particular, for the subject at hand, one.

On the outside, in a more abstract sense, a word travels down my arm. Companions follow; firefighter-sliding down the pole of my pen and climbing down the rungs of the page. Not to extinguish, but to ignite, excite, entice, paint smiles, provoke cries, awaken anger that lies within. All this in a cloudy mist of grammatical sin that, for the most part, I intend, completely.

Sometimes, the words gather in justified groups. Crafty hunters carefully aiming persuasively spearheaded arguments at the head of a Judge reading my Motion. Through the groups these hungry freedom fighters rant, rave and rage in defiance of the law laid, in favor of justice served. Pray they do for the one word which entails liberation, and let their tribe be a legacy. Granted. That word, their triumph.

At other times the paragraphs become cubicles of creativity, jumbled into the same project space, inlaid with concepts, ideas, and philosophies intended to convey the ways I think and feel. Blueprints of linguistic architecture on show to impress and awe. At times looking for critique and inspirations. Maybe for suggestions and tips from other builders in the same field, in hopes they can provide schemes and designs that force me to say “scrap that!” and head back to the drawing board and reassemble the team, in order to come closer to constructing my own American literary dream one day.

And of lately … mainly the letters are carrying an overload of emotions to travel long distances. Over fences, through razor wire, above roads, waters and through the sky, to land at the doorstep of a loved one and release the burden through the eyes and into the heart in ways my voice cannot.

Why write? Because it just feels right. And when no physical side of me is left, in each sentence, there lies a piece of my essence. Each letter a leaf fallen from a tree whose roots lead all the way back to that unknown realm. That unfathomable place. The place I cherish and seek to know. And each time I write, I prove its existence and insistent urge to be heard. Why do I write? I write to witness the noise of my soul speak.