Writing, to me, is a kind of liberation. It is a tool to help me concertize all the energy that continues to build inside me. It is a way for me to simply let go, get crazy. It lets me shed all rational justifications and just let loose. If a painter makes use of a canvass to lash out all his ill feelings, then a piece of paper, and a pen (or my laptop) is my canvass and easel. Putting ideas, feelings, and experience in words make things more real, more tangible. Writing allows me to organize thoughts that haunt me throughout the day. If I were to keep all these in my head, unshared, unrecorded, then I might just burst into tiny particles and dissipate. Worse, I might just be strapped in a restraining jacket and never be heard of from the face of the earth. Writing helps me exist. Reading what I have written, or sharing my thoughts with someone, reminds me (or them) that I am alive.
             Everyone has these moments when feelings become overwhelming. When I find myself enamored over someone, these feelings seem to pressurize every cavity in my body: my lungs, my heart, my gut, even my throat. It's either I grab that person and profess every passionate bone inside me, or I immerse in a recluse state just to restrain myself from doing so. When I am angry at someone and I start thinking of doing things that are considered illegal in our society, writing becomes a necessity. Writing is an adaptive tool for me to keep my sanity intact. My overwhelming feelings of anger, passion, loneliness, or frustration, are transformed into a long prose. It becomes a work of poetry. It becomes fiction, where I provide an alias for myself and the people around me. A feeling is symbolized by a group of words that seem to jump out of a piece of paper. These words become riveting to me, like a bolt of electricity flowing through every system in my body. My chosen words are not entirely Pulitzer's, but they are a good representation of who I am and th...