I am human, but I walk and I talk, and I say and I think, and I sing and I listen. My mind and my heart are selective. My hands create beautiful things, but the part that is beautiful about them doesn’t come from my hands. My soul pours out in streams of something I don’t know, making the technical more than just technical. I write with pens of purple ink, scribbling words that mean nothing, and then, placing meanings into them to pass the time. I see pictures in blank walls, I see something in nothing. I write stories and never write them down, creating elaborate characters with delicate hearts in the pages of my mind. I tear them apart when I tear myself apart.

I stare at things for a long time, hoping that looking at them longer might make someting different of them. I examine the colorful from every angle, seeing the beauty of reflections and shadow more and more every time. I plan out long speeches inside my head. I make of myself a dramatic actress, with a monologue deep in emotion and care. I sound out the syllables of words in the silence of my motionless tongue. I hold back once I’ve planned them out, learning that knowing what to say is easier than tugging a voice out of a bodyt that does not wish to speak.

My heart flutters and falls below its own stability, to say that something matters more than I’ve ever let it.