[Being human] 002.

i want to be a writer.
i’ve wanted it
since grade 5, when
i tried to capture life
in my first experience with death.
and when the twin towers fell,
i believed that it was
important, though i didn’t
understand. so i
wrote about it too.
mimickry became a craft
as i learned what real
writing looked like,
and i borrowed and stole
from those who spoke to me.
i grew up without a voice,
and i envied theirs.
more critically, educators
guided me to develop my own,
so i began to mix the tone
and subject matter,
i threw all my favorites
into a melting pot and made them
new.
or, so i thought.
but i still mimick those
i admire,
still unable to form a voice
of my own.
i thought this made me weak,
made me a poor writer,
made me less than those
who could speak for themselves.

i am not weak, i am wise.
i’ve understood what others
take a lifetime to grasp –
we are never wholly our own.
we are crafted from those
we experience, a composition of
the people we want to be
and dread becoming,
a mod podge of what we choose
from what we’re given.
we do not form ourselves anew,
we create something novel
from something borrowed.

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[Being human] 002.

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