I never thought of myself to be a writer until a couple of years back. When, pardon the cliché, change was my only constant, I turned to writing instead of trying to explain my thoughts in coherent sentences to another.
I wrote so my anger churns out cathartic writing instead of burning down the 4 walls I sit within. I wrote to mask my pain and make sense of it instead of allowing it to destroy me. I wrote to forgive and come to terms with myself instead of holding grudges. I wrote to remain sane instead of letting words have the power to kill from within. I wrote to be able to sleep just a bit better at night instead of allowing words to float before me with every blink of my eyelids. I wrote so that writing became the reason I got out of bed every morning instead of allowing myself to catch both sunrise and sunset from under my sheets.
I continue seeking solace in writing largely because words give me a second chance at life and love. Words despite having the power to hurt, also have the power to fade the line between fiction and reality.
And, that is all I know.
I hope that is enough; for now.