I'm a writer. So, because of that, people often ask the age-old question: Why do you write? Honestly, I ask myself that too, sometimes. And then I realize. There's plenty of reasons why I write. I've always found it easier to write than to draw, mainly because words, if sometimes fickle, have always been there for me. But that's not the only reason.

I write to express myself. To show the world my thoughts, even if I am not physically there with those who read them. Each time I write, I feel as if I am taking my words and rolling them into a makeshift megaphone, shouting into the void and hoping that someone, somewhere, will find something that sticks.

I write to keep in contact with friends far and near, day and night. Sometimes it's easier to text than call, and I fondly await my friends' group chats.

I write to be immortal. To show the world I exist, have existed, will exist. Granted, I'm at peace with my eventual mortality, even if I am terrified of death, and very much do not want to die anytime soon. When I write, I feel a bit less scared that I will be forgotten. My words will outlive me. After all, we still talk about Shakespeare, and the man died hundreds of years ago. I know that words are forever.

I write to weave words together, whether it's into a tapestry to display on my wall, or a blanket to warm my heart on a frigid winter afternoon. I sew words into stuffed animals, small comforts to hold close when the shadow of loneliness looms on a solitary summer's night.

I write to cheer, to rejoice. To show my friends how wonderful they are, how much I love them, how much I care. A well-timed word can be the difference between a revelation and a breakdown.

I write to make art. To express in my own way a kind of tableau, a masterpiece of my own. It may not be visual, but that does not make it any less valid, no matter what society says.

I write because words have always been there for me, especially when I've needed them. No matter how tired, exhausted, stressed or out of it I may feel, words have made things bearable, have let me know I'm not alone. Never alone.

I write because I'm so lucky to be able to have words do what I want them to do... Well, in general. I write because I acknowledge that not everyone has this gift that I have. I'm no Dickinson, or Rowling, or Shelley, obviously; I still have a lot to learn. But, after all, didn't they as well? I write to exercise my brain, my heart, my skills.

I write for myself, for everyone, for the world. I write because I love to (even when I hate writing). I write to make myself better. And, to be honest, I wouldn't ask for anything more.