I think of it as a painting. Something that seems easy, yet difficult to execute. Something that can help you empathize and learn. With only a few strokes, can pull emotional heartstrings.

I think of it as an adventure. A goal that seems so close, but once you start, you realize it is actually much farther away than it actually is. Jungles of hurtles (which word do I use?), endless forks in the road (which way should I bend the topic?) pad my journey.

I think of it as a garbage bin. A place where I can dump all my unneeded thoughts, where I don’t have to constantly fret about forgetting. Where I can throw away bad ideas, allowing new ones to form. I see it as the beginning.

I think of it as a weapon. Inconspicuous and seemingly powerless, it can also shape the course of history.

I think of it as a photo-album.  A place where, when I’m ripe of age, I can scan through those days where I was naive. When my thoughts were bold and daring, hopefully bringing back poignant memories of “back in my day”

I think writing is
just a way of being me.

Influenced by Mrs. Kriese’s post “Why Do I Write?”