My mind is often seen as an awful, frightening place. There, in that great void of misery and despair, lie all of my deepest fears brought to life by the untamable force of my overly active imagination.

My heart is deemed weak because I can shed a tear at the drop of a hat and lose control completely at the sight of spilled milk.

My body is considered frail because I have long, spindly limbs and ribs that visibly protrude.

My face is regarded as odd because my eyes don’t properly fill their sockets, leaving a visible gap, and my hair has begun to recede at the ripe old age of 17.

My life is looked upon as a waste because I desire nothing more than to live in a state of perpetual poverty, chastity, and obedience to my superiors and my God.

I am a man of many eccentricities and disabilities. Depression. OCD. Tourette’s. The list goes on. But hand me a pen and a pad, and I can guide you through places you never would have believed existed. I will take you through mountainous highs and cavernous lows. Through soul-wrenching agony and radiant joy. Through blood-curdling terror and heart-pounding infatuation.

And as I hastily pluck away at every string of my fragile heart, more and more of my sorely damaged soul pours into the words that are so delicately written onto the tabula rasa with my freckled left hand.

In return for all of this, I ask only one thing:

“I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” –William Butler Yeats