I write to express my soul, share my mind, uncover truth, create art, remember life, entertain readers, puzzle people, disguise feelings, and to communicate with God. My deepest, darkest moments are recorded in journals hidden away in a box at the bottom of my book shelf. While I suffered, the pen bled my emotions. Philosophical musings are also littered about my room. My random thoughts during Modern Theories of Mind are contrasted with the state of my mind in which I was writing.

He was the luckiest kid on the block. He had a huge house, a loving family, a swimming pool, and all of us as friends. His privileged life was nothing compared to mine. My parents never even let me add water to my sandbox. I couldn’t even make a proper castle when all I had to work with was dry sand. All I could do was make a heap of dust. I hated my parents; I was jealous of George, who lived across from me.