I am a writer.
I am a writer who often doesn’t write, often doesn’t like what I’ve written, who often loves it but won’t admit it.
I am a writer who will always become distracted; music, people, noises, my thoughts, my aches, my pains, all seizing me.
I am a writer who often doesn’t believe in writing, believes there are better hobbies, jobs, wastes of time, because money so obviously rules the world.
I am a writer who is often ashamed of my writing, of those aches and pains and miseries, because we are told happiness is beautiful and how could something so ugly in truth be beautiful in words?
I am a writer who finds joy and anguish in words, feels understood and excluded, both loves them and hates them.
I am a writer who wants to write the words all above my body, my room, the world, but hides them in my head, protecting them from a world so flawed and angry and hostile.
I am a writer who just wants to write.