I am an artist.
              I am a breath.
              I am an inspiration.
              I am a hope.
              I am a creator.
              I am an inventor.
              I am a cause.
              I am a song.
              I am a writer.
I am an artist.

                            I am a writer, I am an artist; and that is what I was meant to be. I can feel it in my breath, in my life, in everything I do, important or irrelevant; this is what I was born to do. My every hurt is healed as I begin to write, every despair comforted, every problem left behind, everything forgotten. When I write, my spirit soars, my heart leaps, and I feel like myself.

              I am myself when I write.

                                             I am a creator all on my own, though of course, by no means, the most powerful. I am a creator. With my youthful fingertips, I dip my fingers into the paint of word, swirled with colors and textures; I carefully consider it, take it to the white landscape of pure canvas, and begin to create. I twist my hands upon a clay being, giving it a personality, a quirk, a pet peeve, a trait and a description. From my dusty fingers emerges a little person with the whole world at their disposal, but only to get how I see fit. They stumble into it, nudged by myself, as I quietly consider everything there is to be known and revealed about them. But I love them, whether they are as evil as the monsters below us, or pure as a swift angel.