If you’d ask me to paint a picture depicting the significance of words in my life, I’d tell you to light a dark street with the weak glow from a lamppost and to imagine me standing below it. Cast your eyes to the ground and you’ll see my shadow. Look closer and you’ll notice it’s black and wet. Smell it and the sharp odor that will infiltrate your nose will help your brain recognize it as ink.

The deeper I fall into the biosphere of writing, the more convinced I am that words have such a strong grip on my wills and evils that without it reflecting me on the pavement, I’d be forever lost.

Writing helped me resolve my issues against myself and against the world. It gave me a silhouette in a time full of blinding lights. It gave me a place in history by arming me with the very weapon that had allowed the limited nature of every existence to be immortalized through words on paper.

My intentions are not saintly. The collection of written works you’ll encounter in my blog are the few I’ve written that are ripe for strangers to feast on. I’ve selected, especially in my creative works, the ones that will best describe me as a person.

I have overcome the greed to write for applause and have successfully dived into the greed of writing for two things: prose and expression. You can trust that I leave pieces of me in everything I write, and in the moments that I compose my work I am immersed in the vision of being a voice for the mentally, emotionally, and spiritually mute.

I hope I am not the only one left who treats words with due respect. I hope that I am not the only one left to believe that I am responsible for every sentence I scribble in my notebook and type on my laptop. I hope I can show you how much I care.


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