There are things I think and feel that I try to neatly wrap in the words that I know, the words that I have been given. The grant of writership gives me permission to try, but sometimes, it's not enough. My amateur self feels too inadequate, ill-equipped, and small to fully put into words what it is that I want to say. Not that what I have to say is profound; it is the same wave of emotions that everyone feels, those waves of simple sadness, secret joy, and bouts of frustration that escalate into anger.

So I drown in the melodrama of myself, and I look back on my writing and either laugh or cringe.