I am not musically inclined. I will never be able to construct symphonies. I am not a mathematical genius. I will never be able to solve problems like Einstein or Pythagoras. I am not the world’s next best athlete. I have two left feet and the same amount of hand eye coordination as the next person. However, I am a writer. I often find myself nestled in between the pages of a book, trying to soak up every syllable into my being, only to spit them back out into a narrative of my own creation. Words take their time to rattle around my brain, forming into sentences and phrases that won’t leave me alone until they are deposited on a page. It starts in my fingers. The tips begin to itch and twitch waiting for me to provide them with a page and a pencil. The sensation then travels up to my chest, causing my heartbeat to become erratic and excited over the prospect of producing a new work. Like an electric shock, the feeling shoots from my sternum to my brain where all of the new phrases and sentences are dancing from corner to corner, eager to be put into an order and become tangible on a piece of paper. Every stroke of the pencil takes with it a piece of my sorrow, anger and regret. The more words that appear on the paper of my own accord, the better my disposition becomes. For every page that is written, a whole month of antipathetic feelings are lifted from my shoulders. As the work draws to a close, the euphoric feeling begins to fade, leaving nothing but a filled up notebook, and deep satisfaction.
      

Words have always been there for me,even when the people in my life have not been. In times of trouble I never turned to a family members, friends, or professionals. Instead I relinquished myself to words. I fold myself into the spine of a book, beckoning the story to heal every part of me that is broken and bruised. There is a gap in my heart that people can’t fill, whether it be family, friends, or doctors wearing white lab coats, enticing me to spill all of my feelings up for them to analyze and diagnose. There have been days where I wanted to retreat inside myself and never come out. During these direful periods of time there were always words coming to my rescue. Yelling, motivating, begging, me to take full advantage of everything life has to offer. “Write the next great American novel,” they say. “Go, travel to faraway lands,” they insist. “Please do anything but this,” they plead. It is because of literature that I am the person I am today. Without the comfort and support of phrases and sentences and stories has offered me, I don’t know where I would be and it frightens me to think of how bad that situation could have been.
     

I am not an athlete. I am not a scientist. I am not a musical genius or a mathematician. I am a writer. I bend and twist words to reflect my innermost  thoughts and emotions. I can use words as weapons or I can craft words to be a bandage. The way words have affected me has been so profound and I couldn’t imagine a life without the support of literature. Now, here I am trying to figure out what I want to do with my life and all I can do now is hope  that I can somehow use my words to succor someone, the way that words have guided me through my life.