From the moment many ages ago, when I saw my handprint on the cavern wall, I was inspired to write. It was my way to communicate; to record and to inform. I was the only one.
As time passed I progressed from mud daubs with my fingers, to charcoal scratches of my world, then on to colours fashioned from the earth itself. Stone tablets followed as my brain developed, and languages were formed. My tools were hewn from rock and slate: wood and feathers; bone and hair, all provided by our Mother.
I wrote of everything I saw, to pass on my knowledge to my fellows, to educate through my hands and mind. As I experimented I brought forth new materials, parchment and ink in their crudest forms, later refined to paper and purer inks.
I catalogued events as they happened, to be read to the eager to learn multitudes. I had the power to influence my circumstances as others listened to my teachings, and they in turn spread my words. Yes, eventually my words became stronger than the weapons of my would be oppressors.
It took centuries for most to understand my writings, and there are still many who have not received the gift of education I have strived for so long to provide. I battle every day to overcome ignorance with my new inventions. I have machines to mass produce world wide news, machines that now function without my original tool and obey my spoken word.
The task goes on.
I write because I can. I write because I am Man.