Why do I write? 

How can I not? 

But first, let me take you back,

back to the beginning.

When the world was my Oyster. 

When I was the Pearl. 

People would coo at me

and love me just because,

and Mommy and Daddy would pick me up and hold me when I cried

Then I didn’t need to write. 

But I grew up,

it opened my eyes

to the sin, 

the hunger, 

the pain, 

the lies

Everything crumbling

out of reach

spinning into an unstoppable vortex of 

hatred,

and cruelties

weird.

ugly.

shameful.

useless.

worthless.

outcast.

OUTCAST. 

It rang louder and louder in my head until the sounds vibrated against my skull shaking my whole body--

--My Whole World. 

My life. 

It was broken. 

How could the world that moments ago was my Oyster suddenly become the tyrant that was tearing every fibre of my being into Oblivion. 

And it didn’t care. 

Then I wrote. 

The Pages swallowed my tears

and the Words soothed my heart.

I didn’t understand how 

but the dark wisps on that ethereal paper seemed to look deep into my soul

and understand. 

And I wasn’t alone. 

And then,

the vortex didn’t seem so unstoppable.

Suddenly the words of hatred weren’t as piecing. 

And that is why I write.