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To write is perhaps the only thing I know I can do well enough to survive on my own. If the satisfaction it brings is any indication, then to write is a furious passion which enables me to operate on a system of beliefs that often contradict one another. To write is perhaps the only thing I can do well enough to provide me not just passing fame, or new friends, or critical acclaim, or approval, rather peace of mind.

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With writing, I have found reconciliation, a firm anchor steadying my feet in a relentless tug of war. With writing, even my private disgraces are transformed into opportunities for internal reform. Isn’t that precisely the call for humanity – if not reform, then at least a semblance of change from within, or at the very least, a sincere motive brought by a call for something greater? To live life in order to respond to the desires of the beast seems so tepid, lonely, and even pointless. What makes us different from the other beasts if we all acted upon instinct?

Through words, mortality is less frightening. Even with her limitations, writing instills upon a man who chooses to take her, a grander purpose. The details may vary from one person to another. But the unbridled satisfaction in choosing her is the same for all. What joy to tell a story! What suffering to appeal for eloquence! What ecstasy in savoring the arrangement of words, in clamoring for more faith in our ability to weigh emotion and reason, to make them fit in inches of paper, centimeters of paragraph, minute distances of a word! Perhaps, this is the only thing I will ever be certain of. Amidst the turmoil of it all, it is enough.

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