i am no story teller. i do not tell stories. nor do i have any stories to tell. and yet i write. i pour out myself into words, often failing miserably at the attempt. but do i stop? no i write and keep on writing. about what? and why? do i write for me? do i write for you?
am am not me. i was not born me. i was made. by me? but then who is this me? could i ahve been made in any other way than this? would i have been better if i had not been me?or perhaps worse?did you make me?
its cold in here. the climate and the world. for warmth i wear my jacket of love. do i wear it for me? is it someone's jacket that i wear? or do i wear it inside out for others?
is it me or you?