Sometimes, I don’t know who or what or where I am, how I got here, and why anything even matters. I ask myself, “Is this really where I ought to be?” Did I purposely choose a life apart from seclusion and indulgence? Indulgence in sins and secrecy, a voice in my head echoing “you should have been a writer” from the distant past. Rarely do I ever touch a pen to inscribe my innermost thoughts on innocent white lines anymore. These are the first true words I’ve published about myself in some time and it scares me to think how vulnerable that makes me.