I am not a writer.
I often fragment my sentences, riddling them improper with sporadic punctuation, and seeing the letters APA congruently cause me stress. I am not always willing to follow guidelines and my story-telling is lacking to say the least.
I am not a social media coordinator.
I was laid-off from my role, with no more than three months worth of experience in this industry. I have no accounts, clients, shoots or reports to tend. I am idle at best and over-thinking every moment of my short-lived experience, mostly with appreciation, but also with sadness.
I am not a friend.
I took things too personal and weighed others actions in comparison to my heart. This is selfishness. I now prefer to be a listening ear that doesn’t offer advice, a mirror for reflection when the time calls for it, a voice of reassurance in deafening sounds of negativity.
I am not an angry.
I am passionate and deeply loyal to the causes close to my heart. To a fault perhaps. These realizations aside, I can also mention, that I am challenged to expand my ideas on a daily basis. Dare I admit the thrill of allowing myself to be wrong from time to time, or lacking all perspectives from time to time, and having an opportunity to demonstrate growth?
I am not perfect.
A moment of honesty with myself. A realistic, very necessary, understanding I must impress upon myself. A harsh truth for ears pruned to eat constructive criticism for breakfast.
These things I type as truth may indeed be my writings,
but I am not a writer.