To me, writing isn’t a want. It’s a need, as much as lungs begging for oxygen maybe even more. This need, she demands me to share my racing thoughts, to express my pain, to voice my joy. I can never quench her need, she comes back time and time again forcing my hand to pick up the pen and tell my story. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like without her. What if she was passive and her love affair with the pen didn’t burn with passion? I wonder what would it be like to sleep through the night without her pleading to share just one more story. When I ponder of life without her, she wrangles my heart and reminds me, “we are one.” One and the same her and I, this need is I and her love affair with the pen is mine. Together we will always be, a flaming desire to tell my thoughts and share my voice.