Every man who takes the breathe of life, has conflict written for him. A boy makes his conflict about power and the school yard his battlefield he will be a bully, yet mere meters away another man makes war against ignorance and the classroom his front line, he emerges the teacher. It is the great separator of men, not race, nor class but what he fights for and where he stages it.

How the faithful forget themselves, what right do they have to possess the blindfold of ignorance in this life? Bowing to his holy books, he surrender his being to the knowledge within the calligraphy, those same eyes finding truth among scratches upon a page, yet not seeing the same within the humanity that surrounds him?

To write is to achieve immortality, for words are unlike flesh are not ravaged by time, unchained from the bonds of time and location. In writing a man may speak across the centuries, across continents. He frees himself from this world, by ensuring that something is left behind.

A writer does not cry, not that his pain is any less or any different, merely the manner of expression. Where another’s pain is witnessed ¬†through the running of tears across a face, his tears are different, they are ink, nor do they run across faces, but rather upon pages.