I am elusive. I am the night, I am darkness itself. I am music, I am everything I’m not and nothing I am. I am the beauty that unravels itself to the world, the shattered heart that glues itself together, the stardust that radiates to the universe.
I am music. I am sound. I am a musician and I have a voice. My fingers fly and my notes spin through the air and I imagine a utopia. Magic follows in my wake and the sound echoes, presents itself to the world. I am a musician.
I am a runner. I feel the wind whistling through my ears and ripping through my eyes. I feel the warm earth beneath my feet and the pounding of my heart as I race faster and faster to the finish line. I am a runner.
I am a writer. My words waltz on paper and come to life from the shadows of a broken world, long swept under the rug and forgotten, I drag them out and create a gift of harsh reality. I paint pictures on a canvas of utopia, I create the sensation of fear, like a circling madness, love, a flutter of joy, and melancholy, like an anchor dragging your chest down, a memory, panging and nagging you, never lifting. I recreate Hell, I recreate Heaven and I recreate the world, paint a picture in my mind of the life I want to live. I am a writer.
I am a disaster, but not the failure I used to be. I am shattered and confusing and mystifying, I am a thunderstorm of ideas and aspects, of riots in my head and the voice demanding me to succeed.
I am a hurricane of words and colors and commotion, the surrealness of life and hope, the storm of a reality out of order and in the eye of the storm, I find peace. I am not the girl stained by their words and their faults placed on me, I am not the girl wrecked by failure and the unchanging reality of life. Though those words and those faults and my failures have beaten me down before, I stand, I am, I will be, I stretch and bend into infinity, I stretch and bend into the person I want to be.