Why I write is a difficult question to answer because in truth I don’t think I really know. I don’t know why words have more meaning to me than the modest definitions that can be found on google. I don’t know why I find them so intricately beautiful and alluring in their simplicity. I don’t know why I, in my vanity, enjoy the appearance of words almost as much as I enjoy the feel of them on my tongue and in my hands. But I know that if I were to describe myself, I would use words. There are many who would create artwork to symbolize their defining emotions; pictures, images and sculptures bursting colours and sounds. Words in physicality have no colour. But for me they paint with colours more vibrant and lively than all that my eyes can behold. And to me, the sounds that emanate from the thoughts sparked by words are louder and clearer than any decibel. When read, it is the mind which hears words; its ears sharper than the body’s and its senses retaining feeling and memory for far longer. So maybe I do know why I find words so intriguing, and maybe the thought of being the vessel through which passion can pour is favourable to me. Maybe I am enticed by the thought of creating an artwork which is in many ways more durable than paint on a canvas. Maybe I just revel in the power which words can bestow upon me. So I suppose there are many reasons I write, and maybe one of those reasons is because I am constantly discovering more.