This is a question I have asked myself alot through the years….
I am not who I was when I was seven. I am not who I was when I was fifteen. I am not who I was last year, or even yesterday.
But the thing that has remained steady, is the love I have for writing. Composing sentences, paragraphs, stories, poetry – but also writing in and of itself. It soothes me when my heart is crying.
- the swell of ink and the scratch of lead
- the smooth trustworthiness of crisp white and the familiar but imperfect texture of recycled sheets
- the loops and swirls of cursive
- the bold straight lines and perfect round balls of manuscript
- and the lazy way I can intermingle the styles to be my own
Sometimes, I tell my story. Sometimes, I imagine. Sometimes, I remember.
Always, I feel.
I hope you will feel with me….
