I've been a writer for 11 years now (2005-present) and I am proud to have already written scripts for three high school life stories and twenty one follow up stories requested from a friend and from my own interest but the five out of twenty one are not finished, authored five books and am currently writing a fiction literature.

Writing is my passion- it is an intoxicating drug to me, like a stimulant that arouses my creative mind, like a depressant that represses my true feelings, like a laxative which purges the ideas out of me, like an analgesic that numbs my physical pains. Like a drug, it gives me a feeling of being "high", an intense feeling of satisfaction given by the melody of words and the lullaby of thoughts. Words are indeed as powerful as they are captivating. But alas! With all these mind-made experiences, I am not satisfied. Somehow, I long for more.... I thirst for more...

With all my heart put into paper, I sense that my brain is left drained. Whenever an idea takes shape, it makes a quick exit as soon as the legible blots of ink pervade the subtitles of my paper. I recognize that my mind only does one thing: processing. Period. 


"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one 
story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he
compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it."