Sharks, as it turns out, never stop swimming. They can’t. Their rough, sleek bodies cut through the water without stopping for breath, for to do so would stop their breath entirely. Sharks cannot force water through their gills like other fish. Instead, the motion of swimming provides enough oxygen for the shark to continue living, and swimming, and repeating the cycle ad nauseum. Words are to me what water is to a shark: something I pursue constantly, in the knowledge that to stop would be to invite disaster. My first plunge into the depths of the written word is one I do not remember. I taught myself to read at the age of three, a toddler frantically paddling in a sea of uncertainty. Since that first plunge, I have spent the better part of my life either inhaling words or creating them, dripping them out like water from a soggy sponge. I write because it’s my only hope; I write because I can’t help it. As a third-culture kid, I’m pulled by dozens of currents- different traditions, friends’ influences, and the rush of living constantly in transition. Since the age of two, I have never spent longer than twelve months in any one place. The word “home” means less than jetsam, floating uselessly above the surface of my day-to-day life. I had to find something else to swim with. I left my family at eleven years old. Up to that time, I had swum with them, denied the urge to swim alone, fearing that what I would find would be worse than anything I might escape. Leaving my home was the first yank of removing the barbed hook their affections and abuse had left in my spirit. Instead of swimming in my family’s school, I was free to float with whatever current caught my fancy- words and all. In my travels, I’ve found a few books that impacted me. One of them, an ancient collection of poems and songs written by a king, I’ve gone so far as to memorize parts of. There are 150 poems, or psalms, in all. I first memorized the 23rd one as part of a kindergarten assignment and still find comfort in it today: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want/ He makes me lie down in green pastures/ He leads me beside still waters/ He restores my soul.” The compiler of this book, David ben Jesse, was born into a humble family and worked as a shepherd. His story, from pasture to palace, is an ancient one- and yet, it’s been recorded and remembered for centuries. Why? The words. David’s words have been kept alive long after he passed on because they were powerful ones. When I feel most devastated, David’s words comfort me: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted/ and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18) When my future seems uncertain, I sing his words: “The Lord will keep you from all harm/ He will watch over your life/ The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.” (Psalm 121: 7-8) Though we are separated by centuries and continents, David’s struggles and triumphs, as recorded in his writings, give me a voice for my own. One of my writing goals is to achieve that same sense of kinship with those who might read it, even decades later. What I write, I want others to understand the swells and currents that the words were washed out of- good and bad. I write, yes, but writing for writing’s sake is futile. When I write, I am reaching out through the page to those who might read it: I was here, and you are here, and we are not dissimilar. I understand how you feel- see, I felt it, too. Through the words, through my writing, I want to show others that they are not alone in the great sea of life. I might write like my life depends on it, but my words aspire to touch the lives of others as well, like a buoy thrown in the middle of a storm.