I write…

because my identity is best known in ink. Because my pen is a magnet for the elusive bits of myself that resist my knowing them. When I can’t speak my heart, the pen translates it into something tangible that I can release.

I write to be released of the burden of lifelong questions. I am a soul philosopher, a body dweller, a spiritual alchemist. I take my job very seriously, sometimes too seriously.

I write to lift the weight — to flex my zen muscles and have a good laugh when it feels too heavy. Because I know — deep down, I know.

I write to express what I know and to question what I think. Thoughts can hitch-hike into the shadowy depths of the psyche and pollinate the mind with doubt. Ah, thoughts have a mind of their own. . .

I write to be mindful of the things I think. Because a lifelong search for the “I” that I am is best travelled in ink.

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