• My mind reflects my inner thoughts, and injects the coarse paper with ink, spread across the page with a very fine tip. My fingers hold in position a utensil designed to write my very own constitution. In my hands, I hold the power of the pen, and upon the paper I shall use as a foundation of many future empires, grown from the same soil. I can pit grand civilizations from distant lands against one-another, without them even knowing that they come from the same Eden. My hand becomes configured into a machine constructed from the very metallic bones of a god. I find myself indestructible, as I spill my own blood across a vast canvas into the form of words, symbols and characters. I can create life from the abyss of nothingness, and grant my deviations everlasting life with just the touch of one item; my sacred precursor. The pen is, indeed, mightier than the sword, but if I can write with the fluency of a million years of natural history and discovery, I can create omnipotent armies. Armies with swords crafted from the finest steel that can be forged within my mind. With just a simple piece of plastic, I can be a hero or a villain. I can rise from rags and soar into fame and glory by representing the better half of society, or I can become infamous and notorious for plugging a seemingly innocent world into complete and total depression. I can influence other with my tongue of ink, and manipulate the minds of millions into converting to a point of view that is my own. Nothing can stop me as long as I keep my hands moving, because I call of the shots. I can search for true devotion and acceptance in my writing because I'm the one writing. I can write my own yellow-brick road. My own white-picket fence happy-ending.