When I write, it is usually an attempt to cleanse my soul in some far-fetched way. I take up a pencil—pen is much too permanent for my taste and I’ve never had that comfort—and then I put it to the lined paper of my journal, the one that I have slowly been trying to fill out since my years in high school. For all that I lack, my words compensate and channel some sort of energy out of me as a way of coping. I don’t really know what I’m coping from exactly but it sure seems like the pang of aching loneliness and the creeping feeling of abandonment. Everyone seems to be a fatherless child now in “these modern days” so I’m clearly not that special. But no one can truly ever know how I feel because there’s absolutely no way we can all feel each other’s emotions exactly as the other felt it. Maybe writers—or manipulators of any art—are damned souls in that sense, stumbling to put a word to how we feel because we’re constantly feeling it. Maybe we were meant to be blind to our realities because if we actually knew what was happening, we would die from heartbreak.