When I was eleven I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write memoirs for interesting people and be swept away by their amazing life tales. I wanted to write about their leathery skin and smile lines, rich and deep from laughter and sun. A life well lived one would think, and far from my very own.
When I was fifteen, I wanted to be a dancer, lithe and long and beautiful. I stretched and practiced every night for months and months.
When I was eighteen, I wanted to become a journalist, covering stories about the human experience and the struggles for humanity.
When I was twenty three, I still wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write creatively, freely.
I still do, today. Writing has always been my escape in life. After a particularly hard day, the words write itself.
I realized that I wrote daily because I craved self discovery and self knowledge. I am fascinated by feelings. A passion to discover, a passion to record, a passion to study, to create, to write.
I write to feel. I write to admit to myself what I cannot say. I stylize my writings because I like it, and because it helps me interpret the complex. I write vaguely because it helps me sort out my thoughts.