Everybody has one, most don’t encounter the what till much later, I’m apart of most. I write because I must. I opt for publishing for simplicity, I stare at old journals, pen and paper scribbled in the middle of the night and I long for cleaner lines, for a prettier picture then the mess from which the words sprout.

The tangle of myself is what spurs the writing, the mess distracts the process and I stop… I stop writing, but I must write.

I don’t want platform, pomp or circumstance I want to write.

I believe in a documented humanity, the old stories that must be told, the truth that must be passed. I write to be known to myself, to be known to someone I may never know. I want to document my soul, it took me weeks to name it, to bring myself to buy into corporate sharing that seems so shallow. In the end I must write, to what end…stay tuned.

This wasn’t meant for you, but who am I to determine meaning of words on a page to you.

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