My fingers are kind to me today. They dash to type out the motives of my subconscious mind, revealing them to my confused eyes. My words are nothing more than arbitrary black marks that form pretty shapes on white paper, and yet those are everything to me.

Perhaps words are both a blessing and a curse. Hours of devouring fantasy novels on the floor of my childhood apartment convinced me that I had to save the world. It's a subtle urge that manifests itself in everything I do; I write, read, calculate where it is not needed, where the only fruit of my work is the pride that I won't allow myself to flaunt anyway.

My fingers may be kind, but they are not skilled. They fumble over piano keys, white and black, black and white, blurring into grey beneath my tears, my frustration: why can't I master this? Why doesn't each note ring out perfectly, every press of my foot on the pedal in sync with the rhythm of the music, every sway of my body pushing the emotion of the melody further for the people I love? My music falls on deaf ears, the walls of my room looming over me, mocking my futile efforts.

Perhaps music is both a blessing and a curse. Melancholy piano notes like the drops of rain on a window, sorrowful strides of the bow against the strings of a violin, faltering right where it should be strongest, denying me the harmony that I crave so badly. My fingers cramp, my arms strain, and yet it is not enough. I have not yet saved the world.

My mouth takes pleasure in corrupting everything I do. My tongue won't press to my lips just right, my smile is far too wide and bares my braces-bearing teeth, and my clumsy attempts at conversation are met with awkward half-laughs and shakes of the head, furrows of the brow and blushes coloring my cheeks. I could sing before; I could turn heads with my speech, looping and dramatic, emphatic. But now my mouth is in the way.

My mouth closes; my fingers waver. Silence falls in the place of the music that had filled the room. Silence falls in the place of the tap-tap of fingers on letters and letters to words. Silence falls in the place of my rushed, stuttered voice. Nothing replaces everything.

Perhaps I am a mixture of blessings and curses, and certainly I will never be perfect. But something is better than nothing, even though something might be lopsided attempts at grace and elegance, burning midnight oil for what will never satisfy me. I have hopes and dreams, and yet no matter how much I work, I still feel lost. My fingers return to their rhythm, my mouth opens again to speak, to inspire. Because even in my darkest times, I still want to save the world.

Everything about me is flawed and never enough, but that is my gift.