I was doing some soul-searching last night and I had one of my innumerable pseudo-epiphanies: I am a writer.

Writing is what I do. It is how I express myself best. It is a passion and an obsession that I have left dormant for far too long, yet even when I ignore it altogether it smolders beneath the surface of my being, bursting free whenever given the slightest opportunity.

It is mildly ironic that I find it hard to express just how important it is for me to acknowledge this. It evokes in me a deep sense of security. It is my buoy in troubled seas. It is the platform from which I can take further leaps into the unknown, with conviction.

This does not mean that I am a recluse. My identity and sense of self is not compromised in any way- it is only strengthened and clarified, through a process that is simple yet complex. I have rediscovered a solid new perspective from which I can assess myself and the world around me, and derive insights of depth and value. Each and every other form of expression which has tempted me continues to do so, and I remained as intrigued as ever. I still attempt to draw, I still write, play and explore music, and I will someday learn to dance.

But I am a writer.