I am writing again. Really writing. And feeling. And putting feelings onto paper.

It’s such a relief. Something in me craves the release of that kind, of being able to see it and feel it and go back to remember if I need to.

It’s like breathing for me. If I don’t write for a while, I feel stagnant, like everything is just going along and has little meaning. Like things are growing but can’t bloom.

Life is better for me with words. Words that actually say something. Words that paint a picture in a person’s mind. Each one beautifully different than the next.

I’ve got a new journal with hundreds of blank pages and a pen waiting to be drained of its ink.


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