On the day of September 23rd 2003, an organism like any other burdened the soils of this earth. No tears were shed, no hugs were exchanged, and no love was expended. Silence was indeed upheld from the ends of the planet and back, swinging back and forth in a tangential pendulum only a fool would attempt to comprehend. Her mother would smile, lies painted upon her skin haphazardly, a mosaic of sorts, as she held the child, sweeping it into the winds of her own embrace. Truly beguiling, the child would begin to know, to see someone so wretched with beauty crush the life from it only to do so again in vain, over and over again. Perhaps it knew that she wasn't her daughter in value, but a creature to rip the skin off of and throw into the fire that was her garbage. Perhaps, she really was just garbage. Perhaps even regret, to some standards. In the sense of dialect, the child consistently received punishment for living, breathing, and treading on weak feet, yet she pondered gratuitously, unspoken thoughts that could somehow lift her from the confines of those inter-wrapped chains that grew to become her own mind. Unfortunately, throughout her growth, the freeing thoughts existed only to perish, setting astray unrivaled disappointment and grief. Her mother confined her into submission, until she grew unwilling to recognize her own despondency, and became no one. However, on the day of the arrest of her parents, she became anyone. In foster care, she flew from household to house, absorbing experiences, and upholding no expectations. The child grew, and she became me. I am me, but I am more. I am more than what my mother thought of me. I am more than the abuse I received. I am more than the rape from my murderous father. I am more. I believe in a bigger, and brighter future. I believed in no God because no God believed in me, but in words and sacrifice supplied through language that guided through neither truth nor deception. A star will reluctantly shine amongst their brilliant counterparts if they erase the fabrics of their origin, expanding the momentum for which we walk with such undying certainty. Through the process of life as I knew it, perspective and perception played a key role in enticing what I would eventually take and absorb. The world is not only wide, but beautiful, and radiates a passion that can infiltrate the households of many, even as others take their last breath. I knew, without the freedom of expression, fragments that only replicated a human would be forced to concede to the societal upholds of association. No matter how quiet, no matter how irrelevant they might feel, every beating heart ponders interpretation of a more existential or idealistic status out of their control. Letting my heart lead the way to what I truly loved to express and for people to see and take to their own interpretation of freedom by which they choose, made me warm with hope and pride. Words were once something I lacked, and I would frequently lay down and accept my fate of perceived worthlessness, never considering that I could be something more. But now I have something I can proudly own, using the English language to convey my feelings, my emotions and my dreams, for which I am grateful to liberate for not only myself but for other people like me in the present and future. Maybe through the musical connation and meaningful verity of poetry. Maybe with relentless facts and pursuits of knowledge through non-fiction or biographies. Maybe to swim deep into the trenches of wonder and abilities far from this earth through fiction. Or maybe even partake in an illustration of paper come to life through manga or comics fit to entertain at anyone's discretion. Due to the love that I openly receive from my new family, to the empathy cultivated by friendships, or even unexpected apprentice like knowledge shifts, earned through a variety of instructors, professors, and even curators, magical strains of the past dated from historians themselves, I became who I am today. The world of literature is subject to fluctuate yet linger in the world of the past, and if pursuing my passions of interpreting such illustrations of reportage, media, technical writing or intellectual or philosophical observation, then I will fully embark on this path and will only stop when I reach my goal, and maybe a few steps further. Overall, eventually using my passions to engage in the field myself, writing my own works for pleasure, but for others who were also brought up in the worst of ways, laying awake but unheard. In the end, it's the least I could do. And I know deep down the little girl who read her first book in the dark of the room with tears and blood coating her face would want that too.