Life’s nothing more than a burst of energy that flickers and then ends more quickly than can be comprehended, so writers must race against the demise of everything around them and take on the mission of trying to preserve what surrounds them. Writing is an act of conservation before oblivion.
I write with the realization that the movement of my life will progress so quickly that I won’t even count as one tick in the clock counting the totality of time. My body continues on the predictable path for which it was programmed, self-destruction. Like all else that is mortal, I will be gone without breath, words, or a trace of sound.
Logic dictates that everyone I have ever loved is also finite. Living now, I grasp at memories of those treasured, trying to save them in whatever way I can. Writing enables us to spell out the context that a photograph cannot capture, and this context is what defines life.
Just as I am able to sit in wonder while reading about the history and life of those long gone, I hope earnestly that years and even centuries from now, another might stumble upon my words and know who I was, who I loved, and what it meant for me to be part of the living world: In this possibility, there is some sense and reprieve in what was always meant to be a losing battle.
AYESHA F. HAMID 
Beautiful! It is so true, especially, “Writing enables me to spell out, to the best of my ability, the context that a photograph cannot capture.”