I write because there is a tale inside me that needs to be told… of adventures, wonders, sadness, stars and life. I write because there is a deep hole inside of me that is temporary filled whenever I put my thoughts into paper… A darkness in my chest, waiting to harm and destroy me, that I can only control by converting it to a string of words, dark words, but harmless words. I write because there are days when I am too weak, too exhausted to speak and my voice is lost. I do not want to let the words die in my throat. I write because I can… because there is something relieving about connecting to others, and letting them have a tiny piece of your broken parts. I write because I am afraid of forgetting. Yesterday. Today. I trust my words more than my memories— because memories change and blur and fade. Words stay the same. I write because I want to be remembered. So that when I meet the arms of death, I will leave something behind for someone to find, for someone to enjoy and to appreciate, and for someone to remember me by