What reproach would satisfy me, and what reproach would suffice you?

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What reproach can satisfy me, and what reproach can suffice you? By Amal Ahmed... When I write, life returns to my heart anew, my sight and insight are restored, and my path is illuminated by the light of my imagination, sparked by my words. Writing is a balm for all that pains the depths of the soul; writing is a sword with which I sever the neck of sorrow and despair; writing is a hand that helps me rise after every fall, a handkerchief that wipes away every tear, and a friend that guides me back to the path I have strayed from or that has led me astray. In this book, I restrain my thoughts from screaming aloud; I try to maintain my balance, fearing the collapse of memories of people I hold dear in my mind; I resist the urge to look back, for I am still certain they walk lightly behind me, waiting for me to stumble so we can continue the journey together. I deny the days that would have proven me otherwise. I make excuses for the hands that pushed me to the brink of despair and then fled. I regret a careless moment, a fatal word, and I grieve for a torn page with ink still wet. I weep bitterly for those I didn't capture in my stories, those I arrogantly let go. After finishing every book, I'm overcome by the same feeling the writer has, as if I stole a bite from their loaf of emotions. And so my words were born, growing and nourished by every book I read until they matured into a shady tree. When you read my words, dear reader, I ask you to be gentle with them, for they are but the shy attempts of a seventeen-year-old girl.