It started with poems and fantasy stories when I was a child, I would share them with my parents and my grand dad. He had an old type writer in his office and he would encourage me to put down all my thoughts into the clanking keys. As I got older, I would write about my teenage angst in journals, and pouring out thoughts on the computer, posting to I had to release the thoughts and let them come out in whatever form best suited them. Writing has been my lifelong companion, some days it is harder to bridge the gap between my mind and the keys of the computer or the blank pages. When I start emptying, it flows out all at once, allowing me to better understand the tapestry of thoughts that fill my head.

I try not to filter myself when I write; my reality does shape what comes out so it is somewhat less than raw. It is the rawest thing that I have though. I have never felt as authentic as when I am writing. When the emotion channels through and tunnels down my arms and out my fingers, I am whole. The direction of my writing is dependent on my surroundings, reflections on present and past, hopes for the future. Delving deep into my “essence”, I bring forth my dreams and try to pin them to the page, so that I can examine them. I love words, in patterns or scattered, nonsensical or truly binded to each other, reliant on the other in order to be understood. Standing alone, they spark images and I follow the sentence into a place that only exists in my being, then I resurface and continue the next sentence to capture what I saw. It is a beautiful cycle that I keep coming back to. I can go anywhere through words.



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