Over Christmas Break, I found a bunch of my old writing from when I was in elementary school. I found some of my first ever poetry, journal entries, and stories filled with endless imagination and countless tales through the eyes of a child. I didn't know it then, or even years later, but the continuous stream of words that flowed from my pen to the page would be my saving grace.

I never meant to be a writer. I led myself down paths of towards things I thought I wanted, thought I loved. I tried everything in my power to avoid the life of a whimsical creator. I never meant to end up here—spewing my innermost thoughts onto scraps of paper just because I have nowhere else to go with them.

I never really knew my soul was dying or my life was missing something essential until I stumbled upon the beauty of words. I stared into the eyes of a poem and realized my spirit was crumbling, right before my eyes. It was like looking in the mirror and truly seeing myself for the first time.

My life has never been difficult, I haven’t overcome any pretentious obstacles or defied the odds of humankind. I didn’t grow up in the midst of tragedy or watch my parents tear each other apart. But I still managed to lose my way. But there have been things that have left me gasping and salty. Twisted lies, broken truths, contaminated love. I wrapped myself up in opinions and assumptions, and trudged down stony paths of self-destruction. I didn’t even know what was happening to me, until I saw my reflection in a jumble of words.

You see, I never meant to be a writer. I never knew I needed to be. Some people write for fun or as a hobby or as a job they never really wanted in the first place. But I write to live. I am a writer because it is a matter of life or death. I write because words are my oxygen and they seep through my pores and fingertips and find their way onto a page. I don't write out of habit or because someone asks me to or because I don't have anything else to do with my time. I write, because if I don't I am nothing. I will literally suffocate.

Although I didn't know it at the time, even the words from my elementary journal were a lifesaver to me. Reading it now I can see the truth between my detailed accounts of my weekend adventures and my wild imagination schemes. Words flowed out of me like an unstoppable flood. They still do—and I hope they continue for the rest of my life. Because it is a matter of life or death. I live to write, and I write to live.

In the past couple of years, I have started to write poetry. Every time I felt a little twinge I jotted it down. I created a collection of poetry that became my journey back to life. It doesn’t make sense, and there isn’t a direct path. But, every word, every line, every poem brought me a little closer to the light. I’ve learned to write every feeling and every thought, because keeping them inside is toxic. Things only prove more difficult if I don’t get them out of my system. The conglomeration of poetry is the result. The things I couldn’t keep in. Words that escaped from my fingertips faster than I thought was ever possible. Broken, soulful words stacked up next to each other. Words that healed my broken spirit and brought me closer to the sun.

I won’t try to make you (or myself) believe I have reached the realm of happiness and truth. However, I would like the believe I am on the most direct path. Poetry helped me to be here, and I believe with my entire being it will help me reach the shore of grace.

I lived almost three-fourths of my life kicking and swinging out of hurt, brokenness, and rage. As a result, I have wounded those close to me and brought them down with me. I don’t know anything about the future, I don’t even know anything about the next five minutes—so I hope I can just be here, now.

Words, like oxygen have breathed life back into my soul. They saved me from a life without light and rescued the core of myself from toxicity and venom. They forced my lungs to inhale and exhale when every ounce of my body wanted to collapse.

Words are my soul revival.

So, for all the souls who have lost their way, I hope you diligently search until you find what revives your spirit. And when you do find it, what ever it may be, hold on to it for dear life. Clutch it close to your heart and let it wrap its arms around your soul. It could truly be the difference between life or death. I hope you cling to anything that brings you a little closer to the sun.