As the coldness continued, it was my pen that brought warmth to my presence. I was six years old when my father recited numerous poems that I couldn’t grasp, but he knew I loved letters. Words. With that, I was inspired to read more poems and books. I ventured into the mysteries of literature. It was magnificent. I felt empowered even at a young age and started writing juvenile drafts. Every time I finished a draft, the satisfaction lingered in my system. My drive and passion grew when I unraveled my purpose in writing. It was to express grief and pain. That pain and grief are emotions that we mustn’t neglect. I want to write for the agonized beings to let them know that their pain is valid and that they can cry—that they can heal. And now I am here, still writing. With my purpose.