I was once a writer. Or at least, that's what I liked to believe. These days, I'm less confident. My thoughts are muddled, and no combination of words feels right. The details are wrong. The conversation doesn't flow. The setting is vague and undefined. Back when I was a 'writer,' I didn't know how to fill a page. I still don't, but I know why. And I accept it. This is just not the way my brain works. I can explain. I can provide a dissertation. But to tell a story... now that is a gift. To paint pictures with words. To give life to paper and ink, or even buttons and light as you may. You, you are likely more writer than I. Through time, through effort, through sheer force of will, you have already surpassed by now what I will never be capable of, and that is okay. Different is okay. There are those who can fill hundreds of pages, and still have more left to say, and there is me, who cannot even so much as fill this very box. Even as I fill what I can, I struggle with every word. Was there a point to this soliloquy? Not at all. This is all merely word vomit that I worked far too hard on for literally no reason. And this is as close to a writer as I will ever become.