Who am I? I am unwritten. Ideas in my head. Words on my tongue. The pen in my hand. I was born on a Saturday. Most of my days have been spent trying to be things that aren't me. Short circuiting my brain with computer information systems. Cloudy visions of myself in a cubicle, mediocre academics ruled the majority of my twenties. All the while something inside of me was repressed. My creative side.
Who am I? I am unwritten. Dreams deferred. Doubts take root like weeds in a field of sunflowers. No longer searching for the me I need to be. Writer. Revise. Aspiring author. Always been a writer. Revise again. Storyteller. Yes. But my words are hidden from the world. A city on a hill cannot be hid. I want to be queen of the hill. I feel so small in the world. Ant sized. Eye to the sky.
Who am I? I am unwritten. But I no longer look out at the world and feel talentless. Useless. Passion found in ink soaked pages. A gift surely from above. Strive. Thrive. Drive. So unwritten becomes written. unread becomes read. Who am I?
