I never live unless I’m writing. And not just these diary entries—I mean stories; books and novels of fantasies and legends, originalities beyond comprehensible means, my own imagination spurring out on ink and paper in between the lines. I may write of my greatest wishes, deepest fears, finest thoughts. I write of the rain; the way it falls on the contents of the Earth to nourish them to their peaks of livelihood so that they may flourish with a bounty of vitality and reproduction. I write of the sun; a halcyon of unmistakable luminance that chases the silent moon away and forges life itself from Mother Nature. I write of the sea; roaring waters of such gargantuan and unmeasurable immensity that they may never be scrutinized, and so the darkest depths will forever remain black. I write of all the things my mind pursues. If my illness is to only deteriorate my mind, then I will write until I cease to exist. The thousands of pages I’ve scrawled upon are what keep me alive. Writing is my antidote.