I didn’t write because I wanted attention, or needed to ‘feed my ego’. I’d say it was the feeling of instead wanting to ‘feed my soul’. It is easy to Sit and Judge another whilst all he simply wishes to do is bare his heart for all those watching. And i guess that is all i wish to do, to bare my heart to all and have hope, no faith that there shall be one who feels my quill in the spine of their memories and feels themselves in me. So i write. I write because it gives me a sense of euphoria, it takes me to a place where I have hope that I can beat these dark monsters that keep me awake at night. Maybe they’re not monsters? Or, maybe I’m not really awake?-But all I know is if writing makes me feel this way then I wish never to awaken from this deep sleep again. If it oozes my bruised heart to sleep everyday, then I wish for this cruel world to keep on bruising it. I wish for writing and writing alone to be the ailment to all remedies for this young child. So that when the time comes and she’s lived her life and all that she’s seen in this world has disappeared. When the beauty of nature dies out and the orange fiery ball of fire we see in the sky disappears and burns everything in its path, like it had ceased to ever exist before. My writing will exist. The history of it, the legacy I leave behind for myself and all the broken. That will Always exist.