I am a story waiting to be translated and read.

Words don’t come easy – I stole these ones from a song, I think.

They stumble on the way out and hang limply on a line, secured by the old-fashioned pins, begging to be used.

I check the dictionary and find the correct meaning, but by the time I do that, the moment is lost, the pin has not moved, the word is still hanging.

Languages converge in my brain, confused, mixed up, lost.

I swim through ideas, run through subjects, trudge through images.

I am a poem, waiting to be recited.

I am cipher, waiting to be decoded.

I am a writer, I think.