A SCRIBBLERS RATIONALE

I am a writer because of impeccable sentiments and affairs my life is defined. The astonishing magnitude a single ambiguous word multiplying into an intoxicating cascade of sentences and paragraphs. I am a writer because I always come close to understanding the tumultuous dichotomy between good and evil, and then rendered useless by yet another one of those infuriating rhetorical questions. I am a writer because I believe in the power of words. To me, a beautiful mind outweighs what can be counted as yet another redundant aesthetic. I am a writer because the books I read and the words I learn transcends into something worthy of being called prose. The innocuous forms of art I am attracted to, rendered either beautiful or horrifying by some unknown measure. I am a writer because I am stuck between serenity and lunacy, never knowing the difference of one and another. I am a writer because my own thoughts bewilder me eleven times out of ten. My own mind is the most curious, unsolvable piece of matter I will ever come across. I am a writer because I learn by observing, always interjecting a part of me in some vain attempt to avoid being forgotten. I am a writer because I take pity in the inauspicious details, which in retrospect is comparable to me. The existence of one is always inconsequential to another, only to be connected by some force more powerful than us. I am a writer because no amount of words could ever properly portray all the love in this world. It is, and it forever will be, a choice to look at things in an optimistic light. And lastly, I am a writer simply because I am.