Why I Write

When the day is done, practice reaches it's epiphany, and school is left behind without a second thought. Somehow, a wayward pen shuffles its way through a page or so of trigonometry. Away goes the binder, the pen once again returns to my pocket. There's my day.

Abhorred are those days, so frequent their march makes my life a grey mural of monotony. I scribble stories out in inky black and use emotional paints to fill in the spaces in between. I birth stories from the darkness of trauma and the light of accomplishment.

I am god of my worlds. The love I have for my characters transcends that I have for all else (except perhaps my cat). 

The day ends, a story has found life at my hands. I wash the cobwebs from my fingers and hang up the old imagination. All the next day, I live for the writing, for I know the night is young, and before the day ends, I can leave school behind without a second thought, kill my persistent math homework, put up the binder, crack my knuckles and get my hands dirty in writing, smudging my hands in the ink of creation. And I swear, I never wash my hands.