. . . They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.”
I was 14 when my Uncle loaned me “The Prophet” by Kahil Gibran. The verse above carried deep meaning for the life I lived at the time. My jaw dropped on the first page and stayed on the floor through the entire book. I reluctantly returned it to my Uncle a week later, having read it at least a dozen times.
It remains one of my favorite books. Sometimes at night when I am most restless, I find a particular section and let the words from a man who lived a hundred years ago and half a world away, tell me what I need to hear. Doesn’t matter that I’ve read it a thousand times.
Good books are like that. Music is like that. Something in me is starving, broken, or unforgiving maybe. And someone else knows what it’s like to feel that way. Or they don’t know, but they’re trying to know. So they speak in amazing words, in voices so new and unfamiliar that I light up, just hearing those sounds, that music.
I write to learn how to do that. I write to learn to do what so many of you already know how to do.
And I write because it keeps me sane.
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