why i write.

i’ve always wanted to write something deep, something meaningful. something that brings realization to people everywhere. to really make them stop and think, to ponder, and to appreciate something, anything.

i spend hours reading and hours writing in effort to discover what it is i’m so desperately searching for and despite the hours of search, i always find myself here. blank word document with the slightest clue of what i’m in search of.

perhaps the very thing i’m searching for isn’t inside these books, perhaps, possibly, what i’m seeking isn’t a meaningful quote or poem at all but a lesson.

and in this desperate search for perfection i’ve come a very long way in my literary quest. i have ventured faraway lands and pondered life’s greatest conundrums. i have been lost at sea, conquered the depths of hell and spoke freely with the birds.

i realize now more than ever the search for my indelible mark on the world isn’t meant to be written or expressed, it’s meant to be valued.

i no longer find myself searching for i have learned to indulge all literature and all meanings of life. to express myself in a way that makes me feel fulfilled and enlightened. and that’s the gift of literature.

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