The pen is mightier than the sword. These are wise words for anyone, not just writers. It’s also an excellent use of hyperbole sure to get you stabbed. But it struggles to find a specific relevance in a culture devoid of handwriting, and swords. What might one say the keyboard is mightier than, the pen? Never mind the logistics, if freedom of speech can cover your right to tweet than a pen can represent any form of writing. And it wasn’t really until now that I learned how mighty the pen truly is.The ancient Japanese samurai committed suicide in a way known as seppuku. They would take their sword and slice their innards to relieve themselves of being dishonorable. I too, much like the samurai, enjoy slicing out my entrails. Well, not in the literal sense. My pen acts as my instrument. It stabs into my mind and pokes and prods looking for ideas. Spilling stories and thoughts to relieve my mind of their burden. My writing as you can clearly see makes about as much sense as a fever dream. Openly narcissistic, yet sprinkled with humor. Conflicted, yet at ease knowing I will always be conflicted. More than anything I am honest as a writer. I speak my own truth. My pieces are a way of looking not into, but through my eyes. They are hopefully amusing, as their author I can never honestly judge my own piece. I’d probably be my biggest critic, but I digress. As a writer, I find myself in a constant love-hate struggle. I hate clichés but as you can see this reflection is riddled with them. I love to beat a dead horse (here we go again).More than anything you can tell what type of writer I am by this moment. I am currently writing this on my phone as my laptop sits beside me with the document open so I may format it correctly. My girlfriend is sitting at the other end of the phone on FaceTime. And most importantly, it’s 9:10 pm on the night before this reflection is due.