I would not consider this piece of literature to be an article, I scarily avow it to be a letter. A letter without a receiver - for I do not know whose hand it shall sit upon. 

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I confess I did not plan to put a part of my soul unto paper, but to write to a person is to give them one’s soul. 

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I suppose in the grand scheme of things, I am giving you, my soul. 

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Whomever you shall be, hold it gently. 

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Existence is an abstract yet simplistic concept. We are beings of soul, breath, bones, and nerves. All come together to create you and me. A fragment of cloth in the grand tapestry of life. A minuscule thread in a world of yarn and paper. 

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Why do we matter? Why should we matter? When those before us have done much more than we could ever do. 

I can’t make sense out of the insensible as Stephen Hawking did, I cannot write poetry as Emily Dickenson did, yet I still believe that hope is the thing with feathers, and it flutters into my being whenever I read literature. It highlights my heart like letters on parchment do. 

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Thus, my love of words began. And, I hope you have begun to love them too. For a love so explicit and fragile should be held close to the heart, and your lungs should inhale them as easily as oxygen. 

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I sit here groaning on and on about mattering, about making a mark that people will notice. I speak as though I am a progeny of revolution, a child born from pain and suffering. A restlessness brews in my stomach that turns into a tea of resilience. 

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And even though I am not somebody who inspires, and I am not somebody that matters much, I ink my ideals onto those who may be willing to listen. 

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And I think this is the secret to existence. 

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We are born, and the first thing we do is speak. We cry and scream, taking our first breath in. And people applaud. That sound is the first imprint we have on this planet. 

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As a mortal, I've learned what I can do to make my existence mine, and that is to be organically human.  

To be human is to speak. 

To be human is to oppose. 

To be human is to fight. 

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I say this with ease, but I mean every word of it. A baby squeals out its wants, and hurrying parents respond to it. So why are some of us ashamed to exist? To speak? When it is only nature taking its course like so it does when abandoned buildings become home to overgrown ivies and petunias - it's a correction. 

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I might not have a cause that requires attention, but I do know of those that fought for their rights, for their existence, for their voice. 

Martha Rosler spoke using household semiotics. Carol-Ann Duffy spoke through poetry. Harriett Tubman spoke through actions. Joan of Arc spoke through resilience. 

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So, I beg you, dear reader, speak and you shall exist. 

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Written by Sarah Ejaz