Why do I write?

Writing for me is a way of life that started long ago, even before my memory could store it to be recalled. A poem on a torn page of a notebook as a kid, gushing patriotism when on the brink of a war, blooming romance in teenage being hidden in secret diaries and gushing love for the new child; everything perfectly preserved on some moldy papers, to be revisited in back alleys of memory someday. Continue reading “Why do I write?”