Writing has always been a part of me, as opposed to something that I do. It comes in sporadic outbursts and disjointed fragments, bubbling up from the subconscious parts of my soul, seeping from the closed corners of a heart that remains mysterious and foreign to me.
And at this rate, for numerous reasons, it may be a while before I finish the longer works that have been with me for more than half of my life. I blame it on my perfectionism – I’m never satisfied with the current state of a draft. I blame it on lack of time, on life and its many obstacles always getting in the way.
But the truth is probably deeper. I haven’t lived enough. I’m still, beneath the mask and the qualifications, a lost girl. Unknowing of who I am and where my place is in the world, there are pieces missing from the picture. My works are, simply put, incomplete.
So here I am instead, to share my musings, about life and death and the universe. Because my heart is filled with words that need writing, with stories that need sharing. Presently, all alone in my heart, they stir uneasily and demand attention, like an unborn child, yearning to see the light.
Here is a place where they can find their home. And perhaps, if there lies any wisdom in the gentle murmur of their whispering song, may that wisdom guide you, dear reader, in your own journey.