Because I cannot write, I cannot tell you what my brain knows and has known since ancient days (such as the early nineties).

I cannot tell you that I know where we go when our bodies die, how to free the Jews, the best way to lose weight, if the tree falling in the woods makes a sound when no one is around to hear it, how to cure the common cold, who killed Tupac, and, ultimately, the meaning of life.

Because I cannot find the words, I cannot tell you what happens to all the characters that collectively make up whoever I am, that all the tiny people who experience life and report back often do so in a garbled mess that I have to accept as my own, that they don't know what they're talking about, and they're contradicting, and so am I (as a result).

I cannot tell the reading community how to straighten circular reasoning into a nice fit line, remove red wine stains, or determine the *** of an unborn child.

Because I cannot make thoughts more concrete, I cannot build a door through which my ideas can run out, like the incandescent light bulb and the printing press did that one time, when they didn't even bother to turn the door **** because they were so **** excited to get out of the prison cell that was their home, when they found out that these concrete walls were obsolete and forgot to tell me, so everyone up here is getting real claustrophobic and vomiting on one another.

I cannot let them free, because my brain, like most peoples' brains, has a "guilty until proven innocent" system with all the tiny thought people, and I can't let them out unless I am certain that they are sober and unarmed.

Because I cannot create anything worthy of literacy, I cannot use words like "contumacious," "ambrosial," "frutescent," "barcarole," and "peccadillo." I cannot communicate to my Chemistry professor the reasons why my answers don't match his and why I am absolutely correct in my reasoning.

Because I cannot be a translator between ****** information mediums, I cannot explain how the sun actually melts at the beach and drips and floats on top of the water in a jillion pieces, that the butterfly that got half ****** up by the vacuum cleaner today looked pathetically like the veins of a decaying leaf, that the sound of knuckles cracking is actually a miniscule drum that your fingers play as an outlet for stress, that there is a partially chemical, partially magical reaction when you're outside sweating out all your insides and the air shifts and a breeze forms for the purpose of running, sprinting right into the brick wall that is the back of your neck.

I cannot convince all living organisms that we invent the universe in our heads, then how we're all supposed to avoid insanity while outwardly moving about in it.

I cannot explain to you why I will walk past my destination carelessly several times without noticing, why I pull out my eyebrow hairs, what kind of construction materials I use for my self-esteem, why I am nostalgic and regretful and satisfied, and why I adore the people and things I adore.

If I could write, I would write poems and short stories and love letters and angry letters and journal entries.
I would not write comparative essays, experiment abstracts, binary codes, or unfunny comic strips that exist in great quantities (and no quality) every day in the newspaper.
I would explain my universe and compare it to yours.
I would write something other than this...