If I could write something beautiful, or life changing, or thought provoking, I would. If I could create a piece of literature so outstandingly fantastic that it could very well change the way you perceive the world for the rest of your life, I would. But I won’t. And I can’t. Because that is not who I am. I’m not a visionary, or a scholar. I’m not an experienced, think-outside-the-box kind of person. I’m a simpleton. A simpleton with a huge collection of jumbled thoughts tumbling around in a jumpy castle of ideas. Nothing will stay put. It’s a f***ed up kaleidoscope, the way I think. A random sequence of contradictions and misleading concepts that have no real purpose whatsoever. I can’t contain it, but it won’t run free either. It’ll haunt me, or make me proud , or lull me to sleep. It treats me like s***. Never bothering to call ahead of time, it walks up to my doorstep, expecting me to be ready. Ready to take it, and twirl it, and spin it into something magical. Something that will make my grandmother cry. And I’m ready. I’m always ready. Always expecting it. Waiting, so that maybe, just maybe, I can wrap it in my arms and try to understand it. But I never will. It’s silly of me to try to explain to you what this is. How I could ever possibly come anywhere near to making it clear is a ridiculous thought all on its own. But I can try. I always try. And it knows, and it rewards me for my hard work in ways that are unimaginable. But believable. Inconceivable. But inevitable. It’s the way I write. It’s the ideas that flow through my head, the thoughts that translate on the page. It’s the thousands of rough drafts that never have any relation to the final copy. It’s what makes me happy, and I love it. I don’t know where it’ll take me, or even if it’ll take me, but I hope that whatever it decides to do, it’ll make me proud. And I know it will. It always does.