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Every word tells a story.

The ability to express ourselves comes in various forms. Before the ability comes the need, the desire, to let out what is inside us. Everyone has some hidden demons chipping away at their insides, some secrets buried deep under the many layers of flesh and sinew, some aspirations occupying an isolated corner – some thoughts, some visions, something to express, to vent, to let out.

We let this out in various ways. Discourse is one of them, but it can lead to mistrust or fear when talking about something hidden deep and dark inside. Art is another one, but can become too tedious a task for someone not familiar with its mechanisms. Photography is yet another outlet, but it may end up in giving rise to new thoughts and feelings rather than eradicating previous ones.

When all else fails, we turn to writing. We write because we are not afraid of the anonymous readership knowing what is inside us. We write to express ourselves and our inner emotions. We write to make ourselves feel alive through our words. We write to put colour in the most mundane of things. We write because there are no mechanisms required behind impromptu writing, and so anyone can write.

We write to give birth to words, to see our letters grow, to see it all come together to give a new meaning to mere syllables. We write and write until everything inside us becomes an interesting story.

We write, because we can.

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