To all the words I wrote, I do write a song titled for my life.

I am blessed, we were blessed that words come out in circulation of thoughts, the line, and gesture movement in my mind, like a shadow of a doomed creating a dark yet meaningful side. How lucky I am that words are like the air that comes and out of my nasal nose, one breath makes the construction of ideas to exploit, and eagerness to share via words count. I just wanted to say that I am thankful for what words I had, simple yet real. Not so deep but aligned, not that clear but vibrate as my mind talks to others' eyes. I am a writer of my life.

In life is either you will write or you will read. Write and make difference from anything you have seen, read for let the destiny wrote what was the path inside of our future. Embrace the madness, create kindness, and makes things worthy of life. You shall write, you must look for words. Constructing the flowing water from your mind, pasting by tapping the keyboard of yours, looking for some clarity upon writing. Because we were not just writing, we were making things that will make life tidy. This is the path we choose. Let's be obliged.

I just realized that words are too friendly toward me from the beginning of my journey. Not everyone could write and have the courage to so, sometimes one of dilemma that we found is the like words are not on our side, words are like flying bird in the skies it's hard to catch when we used just bare hands, just looking at them doing the fling waiting for the sudden downside.

The more days that come, the more realization I get. Treasured it because I looked upon the valuable side of the two, the pattern to rearrange the tempo. Writing is like composing music and reading is listening to some kind of marvelous song that somehow it’s the first time you just heard. It comes from the music book of the writer, sharing their lives experience. The downfall and rising are like a melody that anyone is willing to lessen and hear.

I always come out on days when it feels like the idle of a bad day. I wanted to create and write a piece but my head was somehow unaware of that and it wasn't ready to become an open field. It's like the canvas I had is playing under the civil war, the bomb of thought coming from left to right, the cannon of spelling and grammar sometimes loosed its ball. It feels so messy, the see and flowing idea of either good or bad are stained with the color of the dark.

Words predict what was in my mind, come out in a hole where thoughts are unseen. It has fallen in the doomed of black forces, yet words come out. Everyone sees the magic when the ending is near. The countless battles of myself and the living parasite of my head.

I have loved writing since young, and I didn’t believe I could do it. Perhaps if I did believe in myself when I was young, I would be in the field of being a journalist, storyteller, or even author of news, portlet, and another medium. But things collided with a simple comment of my teacher when I passed my journalism output in High School, then I didn't mind what was written. The things I kept, notebooks and paper had fallen in dust, no one cares so do I.

Written words are more powerful than verbally spoken words, it feels like the magic is something that will drag you down in unknown places or even give you the feeling of being oneself in anybody else. I won't become more interested in writing if I don’t feel the power when I start to write. Who could write even if the eyes are widely closed in little titles of time? I do that, it feels like months of doing so my hands become voluntarily allowing myself to write.

That's also something I am thankful for, not just the word that I pet, but the fast hands that do their job. It also feels like hands and mind had the connectivity to transport the words from the upper position down, it's like my eyes are very vigilant in some technical issues, my ears are focused on what I heard when I type the words and group of the letters, the redundant sound of the delete button is addictive, the sound of the space bar is somehow sedatives.

Countless stars in my head, allowing me to become more expansive when I meet new words. Perhaps I know some words are becoming so much more attentive, I am not native to these words, but I admit it is easier for me to write English than my native one. Even reading is like a normalized curse that is lettering in my head.

We feed ourselves with distinguished words every day like we won't be alive if we don’t spill the words to create a paragraph.

I was impressed by numerous words I got, sometimes I don’t know where it comes from. Might be from the bank of literature in my head, from a vault of mysteries upon my brain, from nowhere just that something to aim for me to discuss but not really to get in a cast.

Words are like coming from a hot cauldron and letters are spells, the sweet aroma of the ideas and thoughts that must be sensed and smelled by the readers who are willing to look upon how the author's exploitation is, exploded in other words.

This time I just wanted to write, like no one left and write. Sometimes they called it free-write. No edits, just the words that are spoken to you, convinced that I should learn it too. The ideas from the headband are crush not in a paper or pen, but the digital and technology I had

Thanks for the words that are too friendly to me, and thanks to you for reading them for me. Have a good day.