When I think of writing, I think of a way to express my feelings without telling anyone.  I think of the motion of my pencil creating a series of swirls, dots, and dashes that for words. I think of how the words join together to bind into sentences, then paragraphs, then a full story.
    

Writing not only lets me express myself, but it helps me to join in the practice of the metaphorical language. It allows me to put my ideas into a vulnerable position and expand to make them beautiful. It allows me to say what I feel in a figurative code for deep thinkers. It forces me to put my pen on the paper and perform a show for my reader. To entertain their mind and to add words together to create sentences that are not only fancy but are colorful as well.
    

When I was a little, I loved to write. I would write stories about my family, my dreams, and my beliefs. I feel like in 1st grade my writing really blossomed. In school we learned about how to write narratives and reports. I remember writing after school one day about my favorite movie Aquamarine’s plot line. My mom says that that evening I approached her and said “Mom. I need to write.” So I got myself a pencil and paper, sat down at the kitchen table and just wrote stories until my hands were purple.
    

Even before I knew how to create stories; my hand was always a magnet to the pencil. I’ve been told that when I was about 3 or 4 years old I would sit down and write my name, my address, my phone number, colors, animals, shapes, and family member’s names redundantly. I had to get the words out of my veins and on the paper. Writing seems to have always been my outlet to express my feelings. Writing completes my sanity. It supports me when nobody is there and it makes me feel happy that I have a skill that will stay with me for all of my life.