I write because I’m too quiet when I talk. I write because someone once told me I could, and while I can’t sing, or paint, or make music, I can write. I write because I have a vision – sage purple mountains dim in the twilight – I write because Jack Kerouac wrote, “the fields were the color of love and Spanish mysteries.” I write because I love blank pages, hardcover books and new pens. I write to escape the everyday, acknowledge the beauty, the pain, the solitude of knowing myself. I write to escape the noise. I write because the curry is too hot to eat right now, and I write because I dream. I write because every book is a treasure chest waiting to be opened. I write because words make my soul sing. I write to hide. I can escape into my writing and somehow, the act of writing makes the sameness and the strangeness a little closer together. I write as a reflection of myself, to prove my existence to myself. I write because I live, and the act of writing is as natural and essential to my existence as food or water. I write to release the rage and the pain, and to capture the laughter and the joy. I write because I live.