At 12:49 in the morning, I am asking myself why I write. Why do I write songs? Why do I write essays? Why do I write letters to my loved ones?

At 12:52, I am answering;

I am allowed. I am able.

There is a woman in Iran who is not permitted to write about her pain because her opinions are deemed unimportant.

There is a man in California who cannot hold a pen to write his songs because he left his arm back in Vietnam.

There is a child in South Africa who does not have the time to write stories for his siblings because his hardships take his days and his worries take his nights.

My opinions are heard. My arms are strong. My hardships and worries are small.

I am privileged.

I am a person who does not know true hardship; true pain.

I have written about love, and men, and hatred, and things that do not begin to illustrate any of the actual problems with this world.

I cannot stand and say that I can write down the pain that these aching men and women and children have dealt with, because I do not know.

In fact, there are a lot of things I do not know. But of the little I do know, there is this; I can write for those aching.

I can write hope, and dreams. I write hoping, myself, that my words assist in creating a world in which no living person loses their right to write.

There are words that do not exist on pages because of the crisp, printed words of dictatorship born by hatred and prejudice.

We foster war and violence, and neglect the goodness with which we are naturally born.

No one is born full of hatred.

Every single one is born with the potential for hopes and dreams.

Only a few are blessed with priviliges.

They are allowed. They are able.

I write for those who are not.

I write in hopes that one day, all will be allowed; all will be able.