I write because my soul has a story; unbeknownst to my spirit that with my penmanship I can free myself. Like a confined fowl whose wings kiss the sky after being rendered flightless for a time. With feathers decorated in fluorescence like a dazzling flame dancing on the wick of a candle. With each stroke of my pen striking the crisp paper, as do bolts of lightning pierce the stratosphere with an aesthetic to express myself, I create art. You may only see calligraphy but ambiguously in my mind the page is but a blank canvas and my literature is seemingly equivalent to strokes of paint. Blending, contouring, as ideas ricochet from pen to paper. I am able to tell a story only to those with the perception in which that I write. Because even a blind man can see the beauty in my inceptions. 'Tis only when I am done that I truly know that I am indeed free.