Writing is a path to the soul, the innermost thoughts and, as an introvert, it has often been my friend. The chance to see the words flow out through my hands rather than stumble and trip out of a red tinged face while my social awkwardness betrays me once again.

But writing, at least pre-publishing, doesn’t give much grace or space to  hide behind as you examine the heart  and soul of who you are and for these last few years, there’s just been too much pain to let the words run loose out my finger tips and into the world to been seen and shared. It’s  too  exposing, too much vulnerability to a world that often seems harsh.

So I haven’t written, I let myself curl in and hide in an attempt to heal as dream after dream has continued to die before my eyes leaving me picking up the pieces only to watch new dreams shatter.

I’m still watching my dreams shatter, dreams that once seemed so good and hope filled now in a million pieces.

I’ve done myself  a disservice though because writing gives a voice when mine’s been taken away. What I thought was protective was actually silencing. Where I thought I was curling in to heal. I’ve actually been caging in behind walls of my own devising.

So I write.

Not with any elegance or theme but to give a voice where none has been allowed to sing and hopefully find my song once again