The Gift In My Hands

I was born with stories in my blood,
ink running through my veins like a tide,
words rising to the surface, restless,
demanding to be shaped, to be given a spine.

I wrote before I knew why,
before I knew how deep this river ran,
before I understood that not everyone
hears the hum of sentences in their bones,
feels the pull of a blank page
like gravity, like fate, like home.

And now—now, I write for a living.
A life built on language, on rhythm, on craft,
on the quiet, tireless sharpening of skill
until words bend at my will,
until stories breathe beneath my hands.

I am the architect of worlds unseen,
the sculptor of sentences, the weaver of meaning.
I take the chaos of thought
and make it tangible, make it sing,
make it something that lingers
long after the page is turned.

And what a gift—to wake up every day
and do what I was made to do,
to shape dreams into prose,
to turn imagination into something real.
What a privilege to wield words like fire,
to build a career on the thing I love,
to write and be read,
to create and be known,
to do this, always, forever.

They say, do what you love
and you never work a day in your life—
and for me, that is true.
This is not work, this is flight.
This is not labour, this is joy.
This is not just what I do—
this is who I am.