I write because this is one of the few things that is truly mine. Mine, without external influences. Firstly, wholly, mine.

And each time I write, I bask in the euphoria that I did not let this be taken away for me. And if somehow, I find myself separated from it, I'll make my way back and find it waiting, patiently, to embrace me like a long-lost daughter. This is why I write, because it always feels like home.

The knots in my tongue decide to make their appearance whenever I open my mouth, and I've learnt that nobody will speak for me if I don't, so I write, because that's the only way the words will leave, the only way to say the things I have to say.

I write because it is a comfort. A balm for my burns, a bandage for my bleeding heart. When yet again, an arrow pierces the just healing skin that I fear may never grow tough, and sometimes hope it won't, my pen is what sutures that ripped skin. And though sometimes I cannot bear to look at the seams, to read the sometimes unfamiliar, sometimes too familiar words I have written, it is a comfort to know they exist, and that I wrote, can still write.

And I write because of moments like these. When it rains-the kind of heavy downpour I love, when the day goes dark suddenly and I look up to see the sky overcast with dark, heavy grey clouds, and the rainstorm begins without warning, or when I am taking a walk and I get to witness the breath-taking beauty of sunrise or sunset and know that in that moment, there's nowhere I'd rather be than watching that, or seemingly mudane moments like a baby smiling at me or holding my hand. I write because I am grateful to have the words, to be able to document these little moments. And maybe my words cannot even come close to describing what I saw, what I felt, I still write to safeguard these cherished moments.