I do not believe that I am smart or wise, nor do I think that I am stupid or foolish. But I am eloquent enough to write my thoughts and brave enough to voice my mind freely. I write for my own indulgence and speak for my own ideals. I am driven by beautiful old books with yellow pages, music heard through open windows, and the artist's madness spilled in paint stains on the floor. My continuous wish is for pigs to fly and find everything 'impossible' proven wrong. I am the sweet dreams of my mother, the strong will of my father, and the anonymous thoughts of little me.
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