In the quiet, before dawn’s light,
I sit, pen in hand, alone with my thoughts.
The world is silent, expectations yet unborn,
A canvas blank, vast, unmarked by the day’s toil.
Why must I write every day?
To capture the whispers of the morning,
The echoes of dreams not quite forgotten,
To give voice to the silence that envelops me.
Each word a step on a path unseen,
A journey through the mists of my own making.
Writing, a quest not for the end, but for the act itself,
A search for meaning in the mundane, the profound.
The discipline of daily words, a forge,
Tempering thoughts, ideas, into clarity, into form.
A mirror reflecting the depths within,
Revealing truths, fears, desires, hidden from the light.
It is in this daily ritual, this sacred act,
I find myself, lose myself, and am reborn.
The pen, mightier than the sword,
Carves out a space for peace, for understanding, within the chaos.
Why must I write every day?
Because in the writing, I am.
In the quiet, in the struggle, in the triumph,
I exist, I resist, I persist.
Myriad words woven into the fabric of this quest,
A tapestry of thoughts, a testament to the soul’s yearning.
Not for fame, nor fortune, but for the simple act
Of putting pen to paper, and letting the words flow.