Why write when I can just say what's on my mind? Yet, why write? Why ponder your feelings on a paper no one will ever read? Where do I begin on these empty lines of time that have consumed a small portion of my life? I can lie when I write. I can tell the truth and imagine beyond the most billowed of thoughts and yet as I write, what to write? We see the words, but what do they mean? How can you believe that what I mean is seen in between these lines of mine? What do I write when all that I have is my thoughts? Who am I to share with the world as if mine mean so much than yours, and even if they did, who am I? Letters merging in formations breaching for a meaning in a place we all find the same. What makes what I mean and what I write, right? What to write? Judging by the jurisdictions of my words, mastered by the turn in my verbs and yet before I lie, what am I supposed to write? Who are you to read these incomprehensible suppressions, these tangible reflections of a life and her theories, yet most valued possessions? What to write when all you do is write?