Sign. Letters. Black marks on the blank page. The world is made of words. That’s its magic.
If you know the words the world is made of, you can turn it into what you want. You can mould its shapes, brighten up its colours. You can describe it the way it is or invent your own.
If you know the words the world is made of, you’ve got the keys to your past. You can engrave it before it’s forgotten. You can dig it up when it’s been forgotten. You can look at it through the pages you’ve written and sometimes let those pages being your personal therapist.
If you know the words the world is made of, you can survive death.
So I write. To give people the words I know and to learn, invent, teach new ones. To give something back to the true writers who came before me—they’re the real inventors.
I write because I’m affected by a rare case of acute graphomania.
I write because I can’t help it.
I write to entertain others and gratify myself.
I write to build bridges between languages and mediate between cultures.
I write, because it’s the only thing that feels like second nature. That makes me… me.
Tell me what you think
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