I Like to Write

I just do. I remember using paper towels in the barn and scratching down the thoughts I could no longer contain. They were burning up and beautiful inside my head and I needed to commit them to posterity. Inspired by my teenage girl angst, they were poems. (And one wild attempt at an allegory with me as a white cat and the boy who'd broken my heart as a black dog. Subtle imagery, no?) I secreted these scribbled scraps into my jacket pocket. I remember patting the pocket, comforted and satisfied to have those words collected and contained.

I like it now too. Inspired by my middle-aged divorcee angst (how far I've come), writing still has the power to comfort me. It makes me do well on my fitness goals. It helps me to do good, to distill my thoughts to make me a seamless person, one who adheres to her inner core. I want Truth. I want to paint. I want my words to give.

I like to write.