I write because it is too painful not to write. I write because it is the only conventional valve for relieving the world’s indifference to me and mine. I write because I was never very good with my fists and bruising with words is more palatable to me. I write because I read. I read, so I can write. Daily, I read the world and its words. I write to ease my pain and the pain I know resides within the hearts of others. I write because it makes me happy, I write because not to do so is to abandon a talent that can be useful to others, for I am not brave. I lack the strength to be on the front lines, not the courage. I write because I can admit this to myself and know that my talents can help to further learning and understanding, and yes, to even rock the boat enough to throw comfortable passengers into the seas of understanding without drowning in the directionless whirlpools of discordance and divisiveness. I write for those who cannot speak for themselves. I write for those who cannot see or will not see. I write because the universe commands that I do. I write because my pen is my sword to cut a path in the undergrowth of ignorance, arrogance and inanity. Writing is bricks and mortar that allows me to build, just as it is my hammer to destroy injustice and mistreatment. I write because I love the sound of words, spoken or written. I write because it is what I do, but mostly I write because it is my love.