When I write with pen to paper, I do it outside. The air pulses with life—the sharp horn of a frustrated driver, the soft chirping of a bird, the wind chimes kissed by a gentle breeze that also brushes my cheek. This environment becomes part of the rhythm, guiding the ink as it tattoos the message of my heart onto the page.
The act is pure. Each stroke carries intent, certainty, and truth. There’s no backspacing here, only the steady movement forward. Every line captures a fragment of time, an unfiltered moment brought to life through the dance of my hand. In that space, writing becomes more than creation—it becomes a conversation with the world around me, unbroken and alive.