We write to expel the words that live in our hearts. The collection of letters that pulsate and breathe. As though there is life within them to unleash. We write to discover ourselves in the characters we birth, molding their lives from the remnants of our own. We write to love. Live and die. Resurrecting our spirit with a scratch of a pen to love again. We weave together the scant threads of the story first seen in our dreams. We wish to write the world. But the world is not ours to write. There is so little we truly understand. We must settle in our small corner and realize we lack the range. Not every story is ours to tell.