When I write a beautiful mixture of magic and poetry flow through my fingertips and onto the paper at the end of my pen. I create universes all my own. Make characters so complex that they would take years to decipher. I bend and twist the emotions of the reader with one sentence. I use inspiration from everything around me to engender words of truth and feeling by typing in quick, melodic patterns. The sound of which is more soothing than any childhood lullaby because it is of my own creation.

Writing gives me power and independence. It gives me a place that grows and changes as I do to fit me perfectly. It is my home away from home. I can record my sweetest dreams or most horrifying nightmares. I can inscribe the mundane events of my day or the greatest heights of my hopes. When I feel lonely or upset or even just bored I form exquisite sentences into compelling stories.

I wish one day that I could make you laugh or cry or question life itself. When I’m writing it’s the only time I feel truly effectual in my life. There is no end to the amount that my writing can grow and improve. And that brings me hope for the future and a career that will have to fit writing into it somewhere. My life without writing would be as dark as the blackness behind my eyelids. If I couldn’t write, I might as well walk this earth with my eyes closed tight. Shunning the gorgeous sights and possibilities this life holds. I might as well be blind if I could not regard the lovely arrangements of letters into groups that wrench my heart out.

I long to make a living out of putting letters on paper to form stories that imitate human nature perfectly. With my writing I could go to the moon, touch the sky, or hold a star in my hand. I could sink to the lowest depths of oblivion or walk through the clouds; hand in hand with God.

The written word gives me freedom. The freedom to escape the pressures of school and friends and family and retreat to my own personal oasis. The oasis on a piece of paper.