When I write, the truest of my feelings are spelled out to the keyboard. I have come to terms with the fact that unlike others, my tongue lacks the ability to find a way to express my deepest thoughts. I have said it before, and I say it once more – however most likely not the last time – I am most honest to the page on which I type. No boundary holds me back from admitting my most vulnerable and honest emotions to the keyboard. I find it comforting, ironically, because I believe my curse of being a writer instills in me the ability to be more open than most. I love that God made me a writer, I find passion in what I do. Some may not understand it, and that is okay. Writing is my therapy, my happy place. I feel secure when I am nose deep into my phone, laptop, or notebook typing or scribbling away. It is only when I look up, and reunite with the real world in which my physical body resides, that I remember the troubles this life bestows unto me. The curse of a writer may at times be just that, a curse, however more often than not I consider it one of my greatest blessings. I am a writer. I am my work. My strength brews and brews like coffee in a pot, and when I am finished with a new piece, I find a sense of pride and peace of mind as bold as the steaming drink.