If I have written anything about you or for you then you must have been pretty damn amazing whether you knew it or not because you meant something to me once upon a time. It's one of the scariest, strangest and strongest thing to feel something towards a person, especially when it takes you by surprise how much they can offer to your being. Something can be anything: love, hate, anger, jealousy, inspiration, admiration, curiosity. Neither is necessarily better than the other, it's all just an experience, meeting people that shift the way you think about the world and of yourself. I say challenge your beliefs, let yourself grow, feed off good vibes and learn from the bad, let something move you; that's the only way you can find out who you actually are and where you stand if you're even willing to budge.

Writing has become an effortless and reflective hobby, second nature. We depend too much on others to comfort us and get angry when they don't know how to handle the situation. People run to each other whereas I write, and write, and write, and write until I've exhausted my thoughts. At the end of the day, although I may have written novels and sequels about you, I did it for me, to better understand myself as I watch feelings bleed onto the paper. Henceforth, if I took time to share something I've written, appreciate it; if you received a personalized card, postcard, or pictures with things written on the back, check inside the book flaps I've let you borrow, if we write to each other often and regularly, I consider you one of my closest; if I've opened up to you because you inspired me and you knew how much that took out of me, you were one of the lucky fews that had that access so don't front and instantly turn the page on me.

Write hard and clear about what hurts.
— Ernest Hemingway