I don't feel like a writer. No more than I feel like a 'breather' for consuming oxygen. The compulsion for creation feels no less strong than that, and no easier to explain to an outside perspective. I fear those who know me will one day remark upon my passing, "The poor soul. He lived a half life. We hardly knew him." Experiencing the world thus may seem vicarious for some, but my mind is an engine, and by that mechanism I have seen and done things both wondrous and terrible. It's not the same as living a story. But it's innate. Intense. And I don't know any other way to be.