The symphony begins, once we pull heart strings the tears release from within, empathy to an extent that you feel a kick to the chest, with a moment to breathe and reflect, nobody’s perfect, who am I ? the man who hides between these lines?, the man with a disguise? the writer who finds weakness in your eyes? the watchman who can’t tell time? who am I to live a life that is not mine? to say when time passes by, I was right, to present acts of your life, who am I to not orchestrate these signs, to allow others to affect your mind, who are you to tell me what I write is not right? Who are they to blind a pen on it’s insight? Who are we to not question who we are on the inside? I am the product of experience, I am a book half written, against these emotions that pull from every direction, I am human, fear, sadness, happiness, anxiety, stress, all the feelings we dissolve in on a day to day basis, who am I? let’s begin with the basics, I’m scared to fail, to let people down on an exponential scale, to rise and come so close to my goals, to hurt the people I love the most, I’m sad for the people I’ve lost, for all the confusion I caused, for never being able to take fault, for being here too long, I’m happy with everything I have, with the task that’s placed at hand, with where I am, with where I am bound to land, I’m full of anxiety, anticipating a length of wait, walking blindly into my fate, losing myself in my old ways, getting myself lost in memories and dates, I’m stressed, how are fairy-tales not true? how does my writing sound to you? After this, what’s the move? all these emotions hit me in a mere instance, conflicted but not submissive, I’m still here as “me”, have I lost my sense of identity? a slave to the pen, to the red ink it spills, from my veins “honesty over everything” is what it instills, learning from life, somehow still confused, if I told you to find me in the writing, could you?