XENITH

I find it funny that I have always considered myself a writer and have told people I write when the fruits of that certain trade are very bleak in my lifestyle. At one point, I think I wrote for a sense of acceptance or sanity or something along the lines of cliché. It is odd to go back to five years ago and to begin reading the ramblings of a thirteen year old looking for something in life and finding nothing but questions, riddles, and confusion. I cannot remember writing what that young boy wrote. I cannot remember the emotions felt in the writing. I can vaguely remember the events that inspired the words that collectively border genius and stupidity at the same time. I cannot remember the boy, though.