Creative writing -in all forms- comes to me naturally.
I've been caged within my own illusions and prospects since I could form coherent thoughts.
At early age, ignorance and blindness from others caused me to drift my attention from expression. I learned how to feel, yet to this day, I've trouble demonstrating emotion correctly, or masking it.
It begs the question; whose thinking is generalized as norm? What standard have we socially adapted?
Well, my attention was drifted to writing. I've written nonsensically for... a while now.Many pieces of work have been lost to the passage of time, (and my habit of not keeping it). Yet, some stubborn pages still remain amidst my piles of papers. If I am to find one, should I record it here? Most likely.
To me, writing is as breathing is to anyone else. I write because I've done so since I could.It's short, and meaningful. It expresses who I am, or feign to be.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts of a Solemn Soul
RandomA look into the eerie crevices of my mind. A journal of muse, perhaps.