What do I have to offer, I always ask myself, is it the freedom to make the choices I make, or the trust in something more like life to me.
May be imagining that is off the agenda
A lot has come, a lot has gone
Taking pride in what I do; is it the scent of ink as it strokes the sheets, the emotions I feel as I hold the pen, or my heart beating fast for joy as I relieve the art of writing.
I have failed over, and over again only to succeed, I had cried, I had felt pain, in so many ways, which I could only express by writing.
Holding my pen takes me to dimensions, where imagination, and fictions exist. A world where my impossibilities are made possible, Maybe writing is an escape from the mortal world of anguish I find myself.
Writing is my way to freedom, it has an influence on me, than anything or anyone has.
Bringing out the dark in me and showing it to the light. Storing my memories in words so that I could cherish it. Give me an opportunity to restart my life, and I would still choose the path I had chosen.