It’s hard to explain to those who are different.

As eloquent as I may be with words, it’s still a difficult thing to portray.

It’s difficult to portray what it means to be a writer.

Why not write, they ask me. Why not be a writer? But what they don’t understand is that I already am and I always will be. It is not something one goes to school for. It’s not something one signs up to become.

It’s not simply a something, but rather a someone.

What they don’t understand is that being a writer is not a conscious decision, but rather a way of life that one is born into.

What they don’t understand is that my dreams and my memories are my medium for a piece of art that will never be finished.

What they don’t know are the stories I wake up to on the tip of my tongue, begging to exist.

What they just don’t understand are the words and images that plague me, forcing my hand to put them in ink.

What they don’t hear are the conversations and dialogue that are constantly playing out in my head.

(I wish I could introduce you to all the people I’ve met, but I haven’t yet put them onto paper.)

What they don’t understand is that I don’t just love to write.

I need to write.

And it’s hard to explain to those who are different.