(Creative Approach)

  I could stare at numbers all day.

Their tiny structure ornately fills out the corner of every other page, except the title page, where it rests at the bottom. Unquestionably, my adolescent mind becomes synonymous with numbers. When my mother turned each page, I inherently understood I was the kind of person who didn’t want to take up space or cover the whole page in gaudy brush strokes. However, as with the nature of time, my eyes lingered on the stories whose words spoke louder than the images themselves. The writing was no longer scribbles on a page and rushed pen strokes: it was the unleashing of inner provocations, the words of the people, the passion for processing, the method of preserving a culture, and the study your parents believe is a dying profession. Where meaning finds itself in the spacing between the lines and through the curved paths of every brain.  

 For a long time, It felt as if everyone looked at my loose threads, mangled and uneven, stepping on the longest strands, watching bits of my being unravel.

My insides are on display for all to see, while others were protected by plastic encasings, free from Criticism, seemingly liberated. While I had become a quivering flame the world steadily blew on, I eventually found solace through my writing. It was peace of mind for all the thoughts to immerse themselves into a page. The stress became poems, and my social anxiety became free verses unshackling my irrational worries. I latch onto words because they are as tangible as emotion can be. Literature has no confinements in content, and the requirements to fit into the structure are limited. I pursue Literature because it is the structure of ever-evolving people like me representing the fractals of the American mosaic.