I’m not interested in you six years ago, until such time I had my first heart break with someone whom I adore. I never imagine I would met you along the lines of paper and ink of my pen. I began my wonderings as I held my pen and empty notebook with empty thoughts. I never intended to discover you that time until my hands began to write words that described how I feel. I wrote a short poem for that someone unexpectedly. I don’t know that was the time I started to like you. I’m not good in writing and I admit that, even until now. But you know what, every time I wrote poems and stories a part my heart and soul feels glad. I wrote to express the emptiness that lies deep within my entity. I wrote to show the sadness and happiness behind the lines. I wrote to express the emotions that I couldn’t show. I wrote everything that comes a long my mind and heart. I wrote every ideas and thoughts that sink in my very mind but sometimes I couldn’t put those thoughts into words. Maybe that’s normal for an ordinary person like me. I’m glad I found a home in you in times of despair and darkness, in times of frustration and failures, in times of trouble and unknown. Thank you somehow for being there for me. You’re my great companion after all these years. You’re a friend that dwells beside me, a hand that catches me whenever I’m feeling like giving up, a reminder that I’m only a human and still breathing. And as long as I am breathing I’ll continue to write. And as long as I have my pen I’ll never stop learning your ways.