identity

Maybe I'm not ready for that kind of vulnerability, maybe I am. We'll see.

You see,  writing has always been an outlet.

The novels I dreamt of writing,  the journals I would keep my entire life. 

A lonely pitiful candle and an empty room filled with written words would bring me happiness in the past.  

I got less lonely,  met a few people along the way but the safe space has always been the same. 

I keep finding myself missing that teenager with the lust to do things, to see places, to leave the house more often. I have given that child everything she ever hoped for. 

So why does the need to hold that pen and bleed my thoughts into a page prevail? 

Well, that's all I have. All I am and all I  will ever ber. The notes and the pages and the novels are all the things I hold dear. A gift for that lonely old woman with the 7 cats I know will end up becoming.