they write because the world is too small to contain everything they feel.
moments slip through their fingers like water, or too fleeting to hold, or too fragile to speak aloud, and yet, on the page, those moments remain, they breathe, and they become something more than memory.
they do not write to escape reality, but to stretch it, or to bending it until it reveals the quiet truths hidden beneath noise, beneath that fear, beneath of everything people pretend not to notice.
In creation, they find a kind of freedom that asks for no permission, and no perfection, or no apology.
it's only honesty, of only the courage to imagine something that does not yet exist, and the stubborn belief that it deserves to.
so they write recklessly.
or write softly but loudly.
or without fear of being too much or not enough.
because stories are not meant to be caged and neither are they.