I’d like to write this in a way that shows me figuring out the thing I cherish most, but that would simply be too...overemphasized. It’s quite obvious to me what I treasure most as I sit here typing this instead of doing the many school projects I have lined up. It’s writing.
Writing is not something I just cherish, it is my life. I fear that if I stopped writing I’d get choked up on the rampant ideas dancing throughout my head. I like to think I came out of the womb holding a pen and paper.
When I write, I envision the blank page as a person. They’re sitting calmly, waiting for me to build something, using my sentences as bricks and my words as mortar. As unnerving as it sounds to have something constantly waiting on a new tale, I doubt I could live without that blank page.
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