There was a point in my life when I was in middle school, where I used to trace words like mad. Every syllable that emerged from my mouth was marked on desks, rewritten in the air, and dripped in script on any surface I could find. Words fell from my fingertips faster than I could control and I didn’t know it then, but I was born to write. Nothing makes me happier than seeing a blank page stained with ink and filled to the brim with the ideas that were once trapped in the synapses of my brain. I derive no greater pleasure than when I can articulate the way I feel stanza by stanza and have my joy summed up in a metaphor. When I write, I get to control the way the world works, I get to create the story. I can build an entire universe in the daytime and by night destroy it with the stroke of a pen. I hold a character’s destiny in the palm of my hand and have the ability to end it all if I simply choose to make a fist. There is a lot I don’t understand about the world around me and a large portion of it that I can’t control, but when I am writing, I have all of the power. I find writing itself to be one of the most powerful forms of art in human existence. There are only twenty-six letters in the English language, and any sort of combination of these letters can create words that change the course of human history.
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