The Girl in Pearls

Model: Anne Curtis

when the light touches your face
for a second it melts into your skin;
like molten gold
and the world takes in a collective breath
afraid to break the delicate china of your bones.
you hide behind a curtain of lashes
caged by the pearls at your wrist, draped in twists of silk
that you think are richer than your skin,
and I wonder what you see when you close your eyes,
freedom, fear, or maybe paradise.

you look like an elegant piece of time,
like a soft vision of something long ago, a romantic memory in a weathered novel,
or the inky cursive script of a love letter.
I want to weave these moments into a chain of memories
braid them like flowers into your hair
blend them into the blush of your cheeks before they slip
through my fingers; like feathers in the wind
before you get lost in all your finery and lace,
and blink.

you see, you are a beauty not meant to be forgotten
like a timeless song or the words in a classic
and within this musical, breathless chaos around us
you have forgotten that yourself.

©AnumAziz

Poetry

Sun, after, time, owe, love, happens, even, all, you, Earth, Sky, a, lights, what, this, never, the, look, says, with, the, to, me, like, the, it, whole, that.

Confused? 

Look at the words above. They're just simple, short, everyday words and scattered like that they make no sense. But can you create something beautiful out of a handful of stray words?

Of course you can.

A lot of people shy away from reading or writing poetry because they just don't understand its elegance and versatile ways. You can take simple, discarded thoughts and shape them into something full of inspiration and beauty and call it a poem.

So why don't you give it a shot? And if you're not feeling creative, Google some poems and see if you find something you like. You may find that someone has managed to grab the feelings right out of your heart and has strung them together with a few words.

And if you find something really good, share it with me in the comments below :)

Happy Reading! xx

Spotlight: Shel Silverstein

     As a child, I was a big fan of Shel Silverstein and that hasn't really changed at all. In my opinion, he is one of the world's most inspiring individuals. You know, the kind that comes up with unbelievably creative and innovative expressions and you sit there wondering, "Damn. How did no one else think of this before?" Honestly, Silverstein's mind was a gift.
     For those of you who don't know who he is, Silverstein was an American artist. He wrote poems, songs, plays, children's books, drew cartoons - you name it. In fact, you might not think you know him, but have you ever read The Giving Tree? It was extremely popular ever since it was published in the 1960s. Green book? Tree, apple, chubby little kid?
     Look familiar? If it does, kudos :) And if it doesn't, well add it to your reading list my friend! Although it is a children's book, The Giving Tree has a spark that appeals to the sophisticated and the simple. It's definitely a classic that should be read by everyone, but enough about that. Why is the spotlight on Shel Silverstein today?

     I love the internet for all that it has become over the years. I know a lot of writers out there face writer's block on a regular basis and believe me it sucks, but the internet is like a world of inspiration just waiting for you. I go perusing through blogs, websites, and tumblrs on almost a daily basis and never fail to find amazing pictures, thoughts, and ideas that bring me back to life. On one such night, I found a picture drawn by Silverstein that depicts how people with beautiful minds face ridicule for their ingenuity, and through discouragement, change to become bland versions of themselves. It goes without saying that I love this drawing and that's why I'd like to share it with you.

     So tell me, what are your thoughts?

In My Own Skin

     I envy them. They walk around like the air belongs to them. Like the sun is shining on them. Like there is nothing holding them down. And I envy them because of it. Who do they think they are? Beautiful, mysterious, charming, classic? I envy them so much it hurts, yet I want to be one of them. I want to be who they are and have what they have. 
     Their skin fits them like a glove, mine hugs me like a mitten. Their thoughts move with their bodies in perfect, blissful alignment. When they laugh, their hearts smile and their eyes sparkle with a spontaneous, undying warmth. You can feel it. I know. You know. 
     My skin smothers me like a mitten. It wraps around me in a protective embrace, sheltering me from defining myself. My thoughts race ahead of me, but my body declines to follow. When my heart breaks and all I want to do is cry until the tears make me sleepy, my body does not let me. It tells me to break down inside. To hold it all in because that's better. Is it better?
     When I feel elated, feel like standing on my toes and spreading my arms to soak up all the sunshine there is, my body hesitates. My arms stay by my side and my toes stay on the ground. It is as if they belong there and have no curiosity about the wonders around them. No, my body stays where it is and lets my mind do all the dreaming. I have traveled miles in my thoughts, but only walked a few steps of my dreams.
     We all see them around us, those beautifully flawed and hopelessly natural people. Their presence feels exotic. You analyze every part of them trying to figure out their secret. Is it the hair? The curve of the eyes, the dimple, or maybe its the clothes? What is it exactly that they have and you don't and how could you try and get it too? How are they able to exude such confidence with every word that escapes their lips? How are they able to physically do all the things you would have done, could have done, but didn't? 
     You could have been so much more, gone so many places. Think of all the laughter you could have sang, all the meals you could have shared, and all the people you could have had in your life. In that drama class, you could have been the one everyone admired, the one who captivated audiences. You know you have it in you. I know I have it in me. So then, what is the problem? Why are we so uncomfortable, you and I? We stand at the hearth and let the warmth touch our skin, but we don't let the glow of the fire kiss us too. We shy away, you and I. We hesitate.
     But I want to be like them. To be comfortable in my own skin. To move as one, single being. To think about what I want to do and to do those things. To dance with awkward moves that make me look as if I've lost my mind and to not care, to not think about what I must look like. To stand up for the people and things I believe in with no army to back me up other than the strength of my convictions. I want to sing and not feel as if every note is weighing me down. For the song to come from my soul, synonymous with every breath. 
     How wonderful it must feel to be able to wash your face in the morning and walk out the door loving every freckle and every scar on your body. Smiling at every little thing that makes you happy and not questioning the beauty of your smile, not caring if it elicits anyone's judgement. How insanely electric it must feel to live your day in a messy hairdo and a slouchy outfit not caring how others perceive you because you know you have gorgeous inside. You know you could look polished if you wanted to. But you don't care, at least not today, because this is life. Every day is magical despite your clothes and frizzy hair. Life doesn't care about the brand of your jeans or the shade of your blush. It's splendid for the sole reason that you're living it.
     I don't want insanity. Not a million friends, just to touch a million lives. I want to be remembered by someone as they go to sleep at night and think about their day. I want to be remembered in stories and I want to live in memories. But more than anything I want to live in my own memory. I want to visit a country for every letter in the alphabet, snort when I laugh, and reference everything in life with quotes from Harry Potter. I want to eat Nutella out of the jar on rainy days, speak up and compliment people I don't even know, and to voice my opinions because if I don't, who will? 

     All I want is to be able to spend almost everyday loving the person I spend most of my time with - myself. Why bother being envious? None of it matters when you are all you want to be. Irrevocably and undeniably comfortable in your own skin.

©AnumAziz

Hunger Games Soundtrack

     I'm a huge, HUGE fan of the Hunger Games series!

Anyone who has read the books knows exactly what I'm talking about - it's pure genius. I literally finished all three books in less than 2 days; reading each book for 5 hours straight and only pausing to study/sleep/eat. So naturally, I'm extremely excited for the movie to come out in March (p.s. there are so many amazing movies coming out next year, I'll post my personal to-watch list soon!) 

     I think Jennifer Lawrence is going to make a great Katniss and Liam Hemsworth is perfect as Gale. Not sold on the actor playing Peeta...but the cast and movie look promising so fingers crossed! I also really want this movie to have believable action scenes, unlike in Twilight where everything seems to move in slow motion for me. Here are some stills from the movie : 

       

And for all you Hunger Games fans out there, 

Taylor Swift and the Civil Wars have created a song in the soundtrack and I'm posting it here. It sounds really good and I already have a million ideas about what scenes they'll be playing it in :) So excited!!

Enjoy!

Oh and if you have no idea what The Hunger Games are...

GO READ IT RIGHT NOW!!! Please :)

The Top 5 Regrets of the Dying

REGRETS OF THE DYING by Bonnie Ware

     For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives.
People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone's capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.
When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five: 

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. 

This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.
It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.



2. I wish I didn't work so hard. 

This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children's youth and their partner's companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence. 
By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle. 

3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result.
We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

Often they would not truly realise the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying.
It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and relationships. 

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called 'comfort' of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again.
When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying. 




Life is a choice. It is YOUR life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly. Choose happiness.


Based on this article, the author has released a full-length book, titled The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. It is a memoir of her life, and how it was transformed by the regrets of dying people. You can get more information at Bronnie’s website

If I Should Have a Daughter

     “If I should have a daughter…instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

     She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

     And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

     But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

     I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

     You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

     And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

     “Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

     Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

     Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.”

- "B" by Sarah Kay, spoken word poet

Click here to watch Sarah perform her piece.

Date a girl who reads. Or better yet...writes.

“You should date a girl who reads. 

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve. 

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second-hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn. 

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. 

Buy her another cup of coffee.  

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice. 

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does. 

She has to give it a shot somehow. 

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world. 

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two. 

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series. 

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are. 

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. 

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots. 

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads. 

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.” 

- Rosemarie Urquico

Source: http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/show/437516

What Should I Read?

Looking to read something for fun, on a rainy day, or for school? You've come to the right place! Below is a list of all the books I've read (or re-read) this year and would recommend. The list doesn't follow a single genre and so it's a collection of various styles of writing. It's in random order and I'll be editing it (as the year hasn't ended yet) with more choices too. Happy reading :)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett
One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell
Alone in the Classroom by Elizabeth Hay
Abandon by Meg Cabot
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
Aleph by Paulo Coelho


Eragon and
Eldest and
Brisingr and
Inheritance by Christopher Paolini


The Postmistress by Sarah Blake
The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
The Best of Me by Nicholas Sparks
Safe Haven by Nicholas Sparks
The Great Gatsby by S. Fitzgerald
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
The Book of Awesome by Neil Pasricha
The Book of (Even More) Awesome by Neil Pasricha
The Midwife's Confession by Diane Chamberlain
The Lady of the Rivers by Philippa Gregory


Fallen and
Torment and
Passion by Lauren Kate

The Lost Hero and
The Son of Neptune by Rick Riordan


Seriously...I'm Kidding by Ellen DeGeneres
Ruby Red by Kirsten Gier
Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare


Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin
Secret Daughter by Shilpa Gowda
Room by Emma Donaghue
Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay
A Secret Kept by Tatiana de Rosnay
One Day by David Nicholls
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson


And Then There Were None
Murder on the Orient Express
Cards on the Table
Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie

A Spoonful of Honey

     "Don't forget. I'm just downstairs and I'll be back soon," I told her. 

     I walked down the stairs with dirty plates in my hands. I couldn't believe the mess this house was in. I don't think I have ever let it get this dirty. But it seemed like every time I tried to tidy something up, my life exploded into chaos again. I sighed as I dropped the dishes into the sink with a loud crash. And somewhere between turning on the tap, my mind slipped from stability and I felt a sudden wave of suffocation. 

     It was all too overwhelming. There was so much to do! The laundry had been waiting for days, the bills needed to be paid by Tuesday, all the scattered toys needed to be picked up off the family room floor, the carpet needed vacuuming, and this stupid faucet would not stop leaking.

     Drip. Drop. 

     I stared at the tap my hand was holding. There was a burst of rage burning somewhere inside my heart and it was now racing through my veins. I could feel my pulse as if it were the only sound in the room. My cheeks felt hot and numb at the same time. Why?! Why wouldn't this stupid faucet stop leaking? It was driving me insane. Why was everything around me so broken? It was as if the entire world was conspiring against my sanity. 

     Drip. Drop.

     For a moment, the sound that the droplets made as they exploded against the stainless steel sink seemed cheerful. But only for a second. And that second was enough to fuel my rage. WHY? I kept turning the tap even though it was as tight as it could be. But I kept turning it. I poured all my frustrations into the inadequacy of that small, silver tap. My hand turned pale from the exertion. 

     But nothing happened. It made no difference. After putting all my energy into turning off this dripping tap, the fact that the droplets still fell, struck me. I felt like they were mocking me. Mocking me and my failures, my attempts, my hard work. With the same speed as I had felt the anger, came the helplessness. My hands dropped to my sides and I stood there on the cold, vinyl tiled floor staring into nothing. My shoulders slacked and a different sensation started to creep up my toes. It climbed up my legs and down my arms; leaving goosebumps. It rose in my chest and rested in my throat. It was an ache. A terrible, heart-wrenching ache. The sort of ache you get when you know you should cry, but your whole body is too exhausted to follow through with it. 

     I lingered in this weird limbo for a while until it became harder and harder to breathe. And finally, hot tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over. My whole body trembled as my tears washed the pain from my heart. They streamed down my face like rivers flowing freely in the Spring after escaping barriers of ice. I cried and cried with the most silent tears I could manage. I stifled every gasp and turned on the water for good measure. With every tear, a brick was lifted off my crushed lungs. It felt like praying. It felt like I was confessing my sins.

     I cried until the ache disappeared. Then, I dipped my hands into the running water and splashed my face. You know that moment when you're underwater and you rise up and just break through the surface? It felt like that. 

     Turning off the water, I wiped my face on a paper-towel and discarded the evidence in the trash. The moment had never happened. My body moved mechanically as I washed the dirty dishes. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I was already done. Remembering why I had come downstairs in the first place, I moved to the last cupboard and took down the bottle of honey from the shelf. I pulled out a spoon from the drawer and made my way out of the kitchen. 

     I had to go back to normal, as if there had been no change in me from the moment I had left the room. I couldn't let her think there was anything wrong. Standing in front of the hallway mirror, I rearranged my face into a smile. My face gave nothing away. 

     I walked up the stairs and into her room. There was a sweater on the floor so I picked it up and placed it on the dresser. 

     "I told you I'd be back in a minute," I smiled. "And I brought you that honey you wanted."

     Our eyes met and instead of saying anything she just looked at me. Looked at me with her deep, soulful eyes. 

     "I'm going to tie up the curtains, okay?" I said, turning towards the windows. "It's so nice out today."

     She said nothing. 

     "Do you want me to take the honey out for you?" I asked her.

     Her eyes gave me that searching look once more. They tore through my shell and into my soul and I could see something change in her expression as she registered what she had examined. I started to feel uneasy. Maybe something wasn't right. She always did say a spoonful of honey is a cure for the blues. What was wrong? Why wasn't she saying anything? Oh God.

     I walked up to her as she lay in her bed and sat down beside her. And as she put her hand on top of mine, it felt like a soothing balm. The same hand that had held me all those years still comforted me with a touch. I looked at the soft wrinkles on her face, the darkening depths of her eyes, and the wisp of hair that she had tucked carefully behind her ear. I looked at her lips, the same lips that had yelled at me for not making my bed countless times and had read me bed time stories. The same lips that had smiled and felt so much laughter. I looked at her hollow cheeks that still had their faint glow of rosy pink. And as I looked at the woman that sat before me, a million versions of her flashed through my memories. I could feel the ache returning. 

     She looked at me with those tired, brown eyes and her forehead creased as she put strain on forming her words. I wanted to tell her to rest, to tell me later. But I didn't. Instead, I stayed still in the moment. 

     I watched her carefully find her voice and be slightly surprised by the sound of it, as if she had forgotten she had one. 

     "I don't want the honey," she said to me. "You do."

     How was it possible that without me saying a word, she knew about the ache in my heart? This woman who could never tell when I was lying about having done my homework or who believed that I actually liked spinach all these years, how could she know? I wanted to protest, but for some reason I didn't. It was one of those wordless understandings. And it was too precious to lose.

     So, in this heartbreaking treasure of a moment, I let the trembling hand of my sweet, beautiful mother feed me that spoonful of honey.

©AnumAziz

This story is dedicated to a strong, wonderful woman I have had the pleasure of knowing and her daughter - who loves her more than life itself. It is also dedicated to the survivors of lung cancer, the departed, and those whom they leave behind.  

Life is eternal, and love is immortal,

and death is only a horizon;

and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

- Rossiter Worthington Raymond 

If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it - T. Morrison

     When people ask me why I love writing so much, I find it weird. Why do people walk? Because it gives them access to something in the distance. It makes something that's far away appear in their hands. Why do people talk? Because it allows them to communicate with other people and release the thoughts trapped within the confines of their body. And why do people breathe? Because it's an action that is essential to their survival. It let's us relax and gives us energy.
     It seems like exaggeration but in all honesty, writing gives me all of that as well. When there are fantastic worlds alive in my imagination, writing allows me to walk inside those worlds. It lets me pick up an object that was far away, examine it, and understand what I feel when holding it. I'm able to create something real out of absolutely nothing just by writing about where I've walked to.
     When you watch movies or read stories about places, characters, and a time period that takes your breath away, don't you wonder how on earth did someone come up with this? Different dimensions of beauty, terror, and life exist all around us, but they are not visible to the human eye. The grand hallways of Hogwarts and the roaming hills of Middle-earth would have never been seen if Rowling and Tolkien had not picked up their pens and written about them. Writing is the way in which someone can hold your hand and lead you into a hollow tree they have discovered, introduce you to the curious species of Nargles, or take you pear-picking in the kingdom of Genovia. 
     Whether it's in today's society or a century prior, writing has served the purpose of providing an escape. A beautiful release from the knots of reality. It's a tool; much like painting, playing music, or baking. We do it to let go of frustrations. We do it to take the emotions from within us and push them out of our bodies. If they're good emotions, we want them to make us glow and for world to see. If they're bad, we want to purify ourselves of them. Either way, these tools help us unwind, breathe, and inch towards our emotional homeostasis.
     We have all experienced wondrous magic at the hands of literature. For that we need to thank the writers who did not lose the objects of their imaginations to the realm of nothingness. We need to thank them for the time and effort they spent and all the rejection they faced. Without literature, how would we realize that we are all so similar in various different ways? It's hard for me to explain how much writing is a part of me or how it dragged me out of turmoil numerous times. I can't describe the elation I feel when my pen scrapes a word onto paper or when my fingers translate my thoughts onto a screen. It's one of those indescribable things that can only be felt to be understood. All I know is, if there is a story to be told, I need to tell it and if there is a thought that wants to be set free, this is the way to do it. 
     I love writing; it's a part of who I am. Without it, I would be a shell of a person, with a million thoughts rattling inside begging to escape. And really...who wants to be a human maraca?

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. - Anton Chekhov