Since I was old enough to put pen to paper, I've been pouring my feelings onto the page. I was never one for fiction; from my earliest years I've been writing adorably tragic journal entries before graduating to angsty teenage poetry. I majored in English and later moved on to writing as a profession in marketing, nonprofit, and journalism. No matter how cleanly and professionally I've honed my craft over the years, I've never stopped writing the words that pour from my ever-burning soul.

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I see the world in some kinda way. I see people. I see pain. And when I look at the world in this tortured, impassioned light, the words seem to come through me from somewhere beyond myself. They speak in some primal way to the agony I'm witnessing, to the horrors we're living, to the dark places we've been and the hazy hope we dare to hold that the light will return to us someday, somehow. 

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This is what words are for: to speak to our souls. To remind us that the light we seek isn't out there somewhere, but somewhere inside. To remind us that we are the light. And if we can just find the right words, it will burn bright enough to light our way home.