i live to write, but sometimes life gets in the way
I often ask myself, who am I? I'm a brother, I'm a friend, I’m somebodies’ child but I’m an adult. I've been high and I've been low, I’ve seen a lot but nowhere near enough. I’m the victim and the victor, the beauty in the beast and the uglier side of me. I mastered words but still don’t know how to use the power for good. I’ve looked everywhere to find out just who I am and I’m still searching for the man in the mirror. The search will never end but once I find myself, I lose all reason to be who I am, a writer.