These are not my stories – the books I read,
The movies I watch,
Don’t misunderstand me-
I like these stories I read; I like those movies I watch.
I can connect with some of them, and those I cannot, I still can enjoy.
But it is not me; their story is not mine. There are characters in those stories who are a little like me, but their choices are not mine, their paths deviate from mine.
Because my story is different; because it is not told.
Because my life matters, and my struggles are real.
Because I cannot go on pretending they do not exist.
And what is my story? I barely know.
That is why I write – I try to find it in that place where I exist. Most of me, anyway.
Every story I write has something of me in it.
And yet even I cannot piece it together and make the whole.
My story is not merry, it isn’t enchanting. But it is important and it has to be told.
I know who I am – and it is a only feeling.
It is not words that I can articulate and you can understand. Not yet.