I am not a writer. I am millions of atoms carrying energy from my heart to my
fingertips. And I thank this pen for its generosity, and I beg forgiveness from
this paper. I am not a writer; I simply bleed ink that shifts its shape to help
others comprehend. I and my words are separate beings; they wanting to be
understood, and I wanting to simply be heard. I will speak in a monotone whisper
to see who comes closer. Who will still be around when my voice is gone? The
voices in my mind are far more articulated and wise than the language I mumble
and wail. I am a book without a book mark and a chapter without a title. My
pages stay unnumbered to mirror my days. And so, maybe I am not a novel they
will teach you about in grammar school. I am no fairy tale or wise man. I am a
book with far too many typos and not enough white-out. I am a diary full of
secrets, a journal filled with information. I am a bible, I am my only savior.
But it will never be an autobiography, because I am not a writer.