Can you see me?
I sit on a deck near a beach. The sun is setting, the breeze is blowing, the flowers in the wild grown garden are blooming. It is beautiful in every way. I sit with my feet up on a table, resting my knees that ache from my walks along the shore. I have time to kill, I have no agenda. I sit with a journal on my lap, a pencil in my hand, and two more journals on the table. I sit and write a story.
Can you see me yet?
I write of white walls, lab coats, and evil people. I write of a character tied to a table. He is my favorite creation. This is what I do to my favorite character; I watch him slowly go insane. I write of insanity. I write of death. I write of power. I write of drugs. I write of illusions. I write of the struggle of life.
Do you see me?
I sit in perfect harmony and write of inner turmoil I don’t have. This is the sort of writer I am. This is the sort of stories I like to tell. This is, by all definitions, who I am.
Do you see me now?