The Writer

I am the writer.

I should not be credited with the creation of the ideas my words describe. These are not mine. They belong to all of you. I am but their servant, laboring to give them form.

I did not create them. They have always existed and always will. I only make words on a page from that which already exists.

Is there such a thing as original thought? Can any person know if their musings are truly their own? Would it not be more assured that some other person, at some other time, has had the same epiphanies?

I am the writer.

I exhaust my capabilities only to say that which has already been thought, already been said, but to do so in a modern voice, taking great care not to adulterate them with poetry or prose, but also to give them the eloquent justice they deserve.

I am the writer.

I am a slave to consciousness.