Writing is what my soul yearns to do; without writing there would be a void in my identity. Every time I write, be it an English essay or a poem, I express myself. The pen for me (or keyboard) is the channel between my mind and the paper. I am creating with my words, I am encouraging and inspiring. When I write my pulse quickens and a current flows in my chest in spirals, I get carried away by what I’m writing (which is why I hate word limits – I feel they restrict the writer. In my discursive essay I was so frustrated with them I considered rewriting my essay on The Word Limit: the Chain and Shackle for the Writer.) the words just seem to flow out of me. I am in another dimension when I write. The words and strings of words fight to be written, they grapple for the ink of the pen. Sometimes the words just fall out of me and slump in a pile on the paper, but sometimes – by luck or something else, I don’t know – the words fall perfectly into place and my yearning to write is at peace… For now.