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  • I haven't written for myself in nearly three years. I've traveled, searching for muses. I've worked, as a writer/journalist. I've loved, and been brokenhearted. And the inspiration for my personal work was sorrow. So in short, I've decided to be happy. I write as a job and I write because I must...channeling Rilke while eating deep-fried thin mints at almost 2 a.m. It's liberating. It's the purpose behind finding a community of storytellers. To remind myself why I initially signed up for introduction to Journalism and thought: "Hm. I could do this." It's an epiphany typed through half-mast, heavy lidded eye lashes at what used to be my magic hour between midnight and 1 a.m. when thoughts would flutter and assemble themselves into half finished pieces of a puzzle. My experiences in love tore through my ideals and yet the scar tissue was etched with lessons of what not to do. Before I thought I loved, I loved...to write. After I realized what love was I wrote less. The drama apparently fueled the yearning. And now that I have a healthy relationship it makes me giggle a bit to think that with the arrival of the supposed good goes that torrid fury of words. Those that would spew out onto the paper and wriggle like snakes due to my extremely messy and unreadable handwriting. Marred with tears and teardrops. I write because I must. Poems and prose still appear my mind's eye and I let them pass. I used to to fill dozens of napkins. My first love made me a forlorn poet who has become a tad more well-adjusted as late. And so in ode to that desperate state of ache we all find ourselves in at points...I recommend writing as similar to matrimony. You write in the good and the bad, the sick and the healthy points. You record and remembers trails and trips trouncing the fear and perfectionism that grips your pen when you press it to paper. No word is perfect and most adjectives are lacking but with this note I once again begin...to write the way I used to for no one but myself.
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