paris where are you?

i can respect older, famous writers without a hint of jealousy. But the moment i hear writers in high school or below i feel the rise and fall of defeated breath burning my lungs. How could a sniveling child with hands too chubby to grip the pen and eyes wide enough to swallow the earth, write the multitude of innocent feelings coursing through inexperienced veins? but this child is happy, because contrary to the world who is so worried about the almost, the too late, the days to come, and the days they wish had never happened. My eyes see fall leaves and  unforgettable things, and clouds that change with my heart, consistently. my eyes see hope and wait for the son because i know it will come out. Why is that a bad thing? must i be depressed in order to be creative? i feel joy! i have a wonderful family! i have magic in my fingers i don't yet understand! why does that make me any less deep, or honest, or inspiring? I don't want to share this post because i know that it is raw and confusing and so many things that i don't want you to know. i want to say that i have found my paris, but i haven't. but that doesn't mean i will never find it. This post is not for you. It is for me, and if you happen to find some obscure piece of it to relate to and treasure, all the better, because i just want to let myself be raw, and unedited, and honest.