Tiny pieces of paper, probably tens of thousands of them, haunt my memory. Some haunt boxes in the basement, others are in a file beside the bed or scattered all over the house, most are lost with the passage of time. Every one of them are mine. Pieces of paper, some are typewritten, most are not. Most are written with a frenzied scrawl only I can read, somewhat.
They are my ideas, my stories, my hopes, dreams and crazy creative musings. I have been writing them down since my weak little grip barely gripped a pencil at age four.
No matter what life through at me and no matter how life changed and I changed. One constant remained. I wrote.
I wrote as my heart was breaking and I wrote as my soul was soaring. Writing was my release. I could tell everything to those blank pages. Everything I couldn’t tell others.
And time passes, and I realise that it gets cold and lonely and dark in the shadows. I can’t keep hiding and scribbling on bits of paper.