Allow me, just for a moment, to describe the writer to you.



If you look around a room full of various random people, there will be the loud ones, the quiet ones, the ones who want to get to know as many experiences in life as they can, and the ones who just essentially know all the same things, nothing more and nothing less, at the end of the year as they did at the beginning. The writer will be the one who wants to know the world as well as the back of one’s own hand, realizing, of course, that it’s impossible, but still fighting to know until the end of one’s days. He’ll be the one who will observe every and any situation he is thrust in, always seeming to be passive on the outskirts of the sidelines of every hubbub, watching. She’ll be the one breaking all the rules to just know, know the story of that betrayal, know the truth behind that perfect façade. The writer will be the unnoticed one, the uninvited one, the un-minded one, the unavoidable one, the stranger sitting in the darkest corner of the room in the cloak, with face hooded and unseen, just sitting and wordlessly watching.