We are all just human beings made of flesh, skin and bone. With hearts that love, hate, dream and beat to the rhythm of our own drum. With minds that think, contemplate, plan and create. Why do we write, read, breathe or speak? We are all great minds just trying to think alike. With anger and pain, with holes that eat through our hearts, stomaches, minds, and brains. With feathers and fleas, with life and disease. There is beauty in the darkness, there is weight in the clouds. Why do I write? I write so that I can see, I'm blind, stumbling around in the dark until I hear a sound. Then my heart opens up to the light and I write, and I write, and I write until I can see the world for what it really is. Terrible tragedies mixed in with heartfelt, soul built, melting melodies. Stars and fairy dust, death and mosquito bites, endless nights filled with pleasure and horror and lines that blur until the shape of your body looks like nothing more than a DNA strand. We are all just human beings. I write to know I live, I live when I write.