This is not about words. This is not about language.

This is about rhythm.

This is about the flow of sound, dancing through the air. This is about the pauses, the silences. The breaths taken. This is about syllables matching the beating of my heart.

This is what music is, in its purest form, striped of everything but raw vibrations.  This can reach down to my bones.

This is not about beauty.

This is about truth. This is searching, always, for a sound so true it will cut through the air, through hearts, through time.

This is scrambling for a pen and looking at letters writing themselves in stark black ink on paper that breathes like living skin. This is what life is.

This is not about intelligence.

This is about puzzles. This is dragging the hidden parts of my soul, kicking and screaming, into the light. This is finding all those pieces of me, so small and lost, and figuring them out. What they mean. How they fit.

This is taking words, breaking them down, reshaping them to reflect who I am through shards of fractured light. This is what glass is, when shattered and rebuilt. Incomplete but real.

This is a thousand breaths strung together like the beating of a heart.

This is me.

This is.