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.