I would write about the things I've never seen before. I'd be one of those writers that dream bigger and 'out of the box', as they say. I'd wish for something greater and brighter that might make my burden a little lighter.

Maybe I'd be a poet and write about things that don't make sense unless strung together by single light bulbs and open pores to later be critiqued by professionals when I die. Maybe I'll be a famous series writer that makes it to the big screen movies just so people watch my story told poorly than my actual meaning and feelings.

I could rhyme for dimes or time my next pages to be printed. I could even edit someone else's work so they become one with the light while I sit behind them reigning in fame and fortune.

But ... to be honest, I'd be honest. I'm not so great at writing. I make mistakes made worse by autocorrode. I'm never inspired to write anything and sit staring at my walls wondering what next big story I could create.

The reason people become artists is because something is wrong with their heads. They want to create things that aren't there because they think the world is empty and a blank canvas. Meanwhile, there is hungry people with their own starving stories. Buildings get blown up. People are kidnapped and sold. The young grew old. People who once breathed in with lungs now exhale with bugs.

I could colour the world pretty and create my own online delusional cult. I could hole myself up in a room and let my mind run wild but that still doesn't stop the fact that I am part of a current world. Not an abundant one.

So if I could write, what would it be?

I was born without a name. My parents never bothered to give me one because one died and the other ran away. A typical dysfunction from the very beginning. I never went to an orphanage or caring home. Instead, I was thrown out on the streets and left to die.

However, I was taken in by another abandoned being. She fed me even when she had nothing. She kept me as her own and protected me from the things that wanted to hurt me. I grew up without speech and instead communicated by growls and spitting. She died when I was four. She was already old and grey, lost her eyes in a fight.

So I dug in bins and found sleep in gutters. I discovered clothes and gates. I remembered, from the one who took me in, how to hunt. I had watched her all those times after all. She ate what looked like her; ones that had bugs and hard skin like her. So when my stomach started to rumble, I followed what she taught me.

I crept into neat homes and white gates that moved on their own. I entered through an opening and found the first one in their bed. I took them screaming in a language I couldn't understand. I made them quiet then swallowed and tore as much as I could before the sun set to morning.

One day, people who looked scary found me and set me in a cold room. They spoke with weird tongues. I replied by growling. The one sound I kept hearing was 'feral'. I was chained down. I wanted to get loose. But they refused.

Then a young male had burst into the room and communicated with the others. The male took me to his home and bathed me. He gave me better clothes and taught me to eat certain food. He gave me his tongue and we spoke. He taught me how to be what I was born as, 'human'.

I asked him many questions and he asked me what I would write if I could. I responded with this:

"I would write about why I wasn't able to write at the beginning of my life."

"And why couldn't you?"

"Because others had stories to write too."