I wanted to write

I wanted to write.

I wanted to write things that had the ability to move people. I wanted to create sentences that transported them to places that were beyond their imaginations. I wanted to use my words to paint pictures of the most vivid colors and textures and sounds-things so tangible and palpable that you would want to reach your hand out and test out the reality for yourself. I wanted to put a voice behind emotions that seemed too raw to have a description. I wanted to pen out every deep thought and idea that crossed my mind on paper and and create a solace that documents every beautiful and damaged thing I came across. I wanted to write.

I considered myself a writer in some respects. I wrote a lot. I wrote frequently. I told stories and molded my world around black print and letters. I tried, and hey, that's a heck of a lot better then doing nothing at all, or so they say. But sometimes, I stumbled across someone who wrote their emotions so brilliantly that by the end of the story I felt like they were my own and I thought: I want to write. I want to write like that.

and so, I kept writing. But between the lines and the dotted i's and the crossed t's and overused phrases and cliches, I realized that I'm not writing for anyone but me. These are my emotions and my thoughts and no one elses and that by putting them down in a concrete way, I'm becoming the writer I wanted to be all along. And that is good enough for me.