In George Orwell’s Why I write he says “From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature..” This connected to me strongly because I feel that I have a calling for writing but I always find time to say “I don’t have time.” When people get stressed some go for runs, or a swim, possibly read a book, or punch a punching bag, but when I feel stressed or overwhelmed or like I have too much going on in my mind to get out- I somehow find a way to do just that- and I get it out by writing. I don’t always write about what’s on my mind in that exact moment, most times I write about the world, and how I see it. I feel like spoken words don’t always come out the way I want them to sound but when I write them down they string together like a a shirt being sewn and somehow all those ideas form one shirt- one idea. I hate my handwriting and my right hand gets extremely restless to the point where writing with ink almost makes me lose my train of thought, and I know in the olden days there were no computers so in a way I feel as if I am stripping away the essence of writing in itself but since my mind runs so fast itself, I feel that my typing fingers can keep up the fast pace much better. When I look at the sky I see blue and if someone to ask me “What do you see?” I would say blue. But if I were to write about what I see when I look at the sky I would say that it reminds me of my childhood. It is one of the only things that stays permanent in this world. Changing only between a few shades of dark to light and sometimes grey, these are the same three colors that no matter where you are in the world you can see the same sky as someone far far away. And this is the same sky that no matter which shade- plays home for the big white ball, we call the moon, floating up there that somehow seems to closely control our emotions. And what else do I see when I look at the sky? I more often than not see ginormous magical cotton balls, we call clouds, ever changing, creating an everlasting blank canvas for my imagination to paint with. The best present any kid could ask for. I see a glowing yellow ball that plays peek a boo with me. One moment it is warm and everything is golden, but the next it’s cold and dark. The sun reminds me that nature has the ability to change with absolutely no commitment to keeping us humans content. She has no responsibility to us, she is free. I admire her. So when I say the sky reminds me of my childhood, this is what I mean. The blue, the moon, the clouds, the sun. If someone were to ask me “What do you see when you look at the sky?” I would say blue. But if I were to write about it, I find my strings sewing themselves together to make that one shirt, and suddenly all my ideas have come together to make one. This is why I write.