When words lose their meaning, it will the time when I hope I perish. For in the silence of each letter I use to write and in the intervals of each rhyme I have spoken, I find solace and comfort. The peace it gives is incomparable to anything. They supply the force that pushes my pen to illustrate what I have in mind. They evoke a thousand imaginations that reside in me. Their existence brings forth the things I cherish, value and desire. In my indulgence of using words, I can paint pictures that surpass the art of any master’s hand. And with them as company, I can travel the world like no one can.
I write for no other reason, but my love for the use of words. For in each word I write, there is passion. There is reason, which encompasses our right to speech; Reason that gives meaning to my meager existence. Writing is an art produced by the strokes of a pen, which is my life blood. It is my weapon. With words I have used and formed, you can take a peek at the impressions of my soul. Impressions of my very being, which will lose color, once words lose their meaning.