Cautiously bestowing her ethereal presence,

the profundity of her garden casting me into the unknown,

Calliope appeared in front of me with the face of an angel

and the voice of a commanding god.

“Why do you write,” she asked, her voice as smooth as velvet.

“Tell me, and I will give you the key to all knowledge.”

But I couldn’t begin to fathom the idea.

Overwhelmed by the ineffable question, I glanced at her opulent city,

which stood out like a rare piece of magnum opus.

The unexplainable, I thought to myself.

I glimpsed in her direction, the answer finally coming to me.

“I write because I'm free,

because I can,

because I will.

I write because I must,

because I'm breathing,

because I'd go crazy otherwise,

because it's who I am.

I write to make a statement,

to share my thoughts,

to discover myself,

to express my ideas.

But most of all, I write for future generations.

I write for love.

I write to inspire.

I write to encourage.

I write for me.”

And with that she granted me the key to her garden.